


Know Hope

by LipsOfFrost



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Identity Issues, Identity Porn, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, and i mean slooooow, obvious and hidden themes in morality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:41:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24301537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LipsOfFrost/pseuds/LipsOfFrost
Summary: Bruce had seen him in the news, the footage, but it was nothing to witnessing the real thing. For all of his planning, the one thing he didn't prepare for was falling in love.And could this bumbling reporter stay out of harm's way for five goddamn minutes?(Another take on first meetings.)
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 122
Kudos: 428





	1. Black

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, hey! So, the plot will mostly revolve around character development and their relationship because their love for each other is so blatantly obvious, and they make me want to tear my hair out. Um, I dabbled into heavy worldbuilding and hand selected ideas and events from basically all media types, i.e. the comics, cartoons, movies, games, and my imagination, so this can be in any universe you want it to be.
> 
> Nuff rambling. Enjoy!

The gang of crooks brought a bile taste to his mouth. Hoodlums. Scum. They huddled in the shadows where they thought they'd be safe, the city's nocturnal predators, free from danger in their concealed alcoves. Neither seemed concerned about what went bump into the night. They were hunters pursuing gazelles, yet they fed off fruit flies. Bit more than they could chew. The world was a food chain, but the animal kingdom had the excuse of survival. At the essence of it, they had no choice. Humans – a fraction of a percentage in the billions there were – blurred the lines somewhere along the way. To these few, choice was a joke. They preyed on the weak for enjoyment. They _killed_ for an investment.

Bruce didn't need his gear to hear their filthy squawking as they argued about their mistakes for all the wrong reasons.

"Thought we had a deal, man! No guns!" one ripped a handgun – Glock, fired nine by nineteens, could be easily pilfered from the police – out of another's hand, "We in deep now."

 _Abdul Jalil._ Twenty-one years old. Too young for such an involved history. Mostly petty b&e's, robbery, theft, vandalism, possession of illicit goods. His mother took him and ran from a serious case of domestic. Changed their names. She lost her job. Inflation had shadowed Gotham for decades now, so housing wasn't cheap. Hence the path to the system.

"How else were we supposed to scare 'em?!" _Lukas Valentino,_ thirty-one, insurance fraud, identity theft, arson, and some of the above. His interests lay mostly in greed.

"We just robbed the city bank –" Bruce shifted – _Thomas Walker,_ twenty-seven, sexual assault, child neglect, several counts of aggravated assault, some of the above – and double checked his recorder, "Who the hell would be stupid enough not to carry guns!"

"This isn't old Gotham," Abdul tossed the gun to the side. Bruce would collect it later, "We don't use guns no more!"

"I didn't shoot no one – "

Lukas interrupted, "Oh yeah you did, Tommy, you fuckin' pussy."

"Tell me they ain't dead, Tommy."

A scoff, "The cops don't give two shits. So what, if they're dead, man?! He was – "

"Shh! Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck _up_ ," Abdul hissed, having some sense of preservation. He peered into the darkness, slightly to the left of Bruce, "Who cares about the cops – we're in _his_ turf! You know what he does to people who kill? He fucks 'em right in the ass! You like it rough, Tommy?!"

"You tellin' me you believe in that crap? Does your _mommy_ tuck you in a night too?"

"Leave her outta this you piece of shit!"

Sensing he wouldn't be getting anymore information out of them, Bruce dropped down.

His punches did nothing to settle the anger simmering his blood. The men shouted, but he didn't hear, flipping the oldest of them over his shoulder. Breath knocked out of him, the thug flailed, wheezed, maybe trying to get up, mostly trying to breathe. Bruce didn't let him, kicking his head with just enough force to concuss and knock him out.

Something crept into his peripherals. Bruce saw a hand shaking. It quivered. The Glock was aimed at Bruce, unsteady. Not out of inexperience, not the telltale nerves of someone who held a gun for the first time, because Thomas had shot and killed a man only an hour ago.

Tch. Bruce disappeared into their safety net, what they'd been relying on to hide from prying eyes. Batman had been molded out of the darkness – his blood was black and the air he breathed, the shadows. The night was _his._

"Oh, shit, Abdul – I don't see – !"

There was no satisfaction in breaking Thomas's wrist, twisting it until the joints shattered. The man screamed in his agony, fingers shaking so bad Bruce couldn't decipher whether the trigger was pulled out of reflex or with intention. A bullet whizzed by his cheek before he heard the shot. It rang in the air, and in the distance, a dog began to bark at the disturbance.

Bruce kicked him behind the knee and chucked the gun out of their reach in a single, swift motion.

"Oh, god – oh god – "

Bruce grabbed him by the chest and struck him with a fist.

It wasn't enough.

Again. Again.

Blood spurt out that vile mouth, teeth with it, painting his lips red.

He said lowly, all Bat, "You killed a father of three."

Girls. The oldest eight and the youngest—fifteen months.

"S – I – I'm sorr- sorry," he struggled.

"His wife has ovarian cancer," this he hissed, and if the blades on his gauntlet scraped the man's jaw on his next punch, Bruce didn't notice. He shook him, once, "Stage four."

A shout, "Let him go!"

He sent Abdul flying out of the way with a snapping kick. The kid landed on his back, howling wildly in a mantra, "Oh fuck, I _told_ you this would happen. I told you, Tommy. I told y– ughrhrgh!"

Bruce didn't let him finish, instead dropping the now unconscious Tommy to grab the boy by the neck, placing his fingers over the pulse of his carotids, squeezing. It didn't take long. Three, four seconds. Oxygen deprivation knocked him out cold. If Bruce had been gentler on the kid than the rest, then that was only for him to know. As long as it didn't look it – as long as the public imagined the Bat to be entirely merciless.

Alfred remained silent, and it was better that way. He didn't think he wanted to hear what he had to say.

* * *

"Master Wayne."

Batman didn't look up from his makeshift operation table when he replied, "What is it?"

The cowl needed its defensive mechanisms updated. Without proper maintenance, there would be stray fingers getting into where they shouldn't be. The shock feature had to be assessed frequently, otherwise he'd be depending on something that was out of battery, unreliable, or out-of-date. Technology was rapidly evolving, and he needed to ensure Batman was consistently two steps ahead at the bare minimum.

An upgrade Bruce did consider was the opaque eye lens. It could be programmed to connect to the computer. He'd get started on developing them as soon as possible. Dick had suggested a voice modulator, which he installed for emergencies, but he preferred routine patrols without it. He came to find that criminals were more afraid of Batman when he sounded relatively human. Synthetic auditory interference made it less real to them, as though facing one of their own was more terrible. And it was. A monster preying on the weak was the expected. Bruce was only returning the favour, showing them what a human could become. Batman was a punisher. There was no room for forgiveness. Batman opened their eyes, rudely awakened them to the results of their choices. The rest he left for them, whether they sought repentance or transgression.

Bruce could only hope they made the right decision.

"Turn on the news," Alfred didn't ask, dropping all formalities. There was an unwonted sense of urgency in his tone that had Bruce looking up from his work.

"Which channel?" he demanded.

"Any."

That implied something big. Too big. Batman set down everything and swiftly moved to the monitors. A few inputs into the keys, and the screens lit up. Alfred turned up the volume.

The news castor's panicking voice streamlined into the cave, " – cannot believe what I am seeing. As I've said, this is no prank. There's no CGI, no green screen, and no trick behind what you are witnessing today – "

Bruce took in the blue and red dot hovering in the sky, and his own expression turned grim.

"That isn't something you see everyday," Alfred commented lightly, despite the gravity of the situation.

Batman switched to a different broadcaster, one that might be more informative. He hit the record prompt as the report continued, " – was spotted in – over – Metropolis and appears to be flying. There's more, if you can believe it. Flight _and_ super-strength. Hundreds of lives were saved today when this super-human stopped a plane from crashing into the Dailey Planet's skyscraper. Take a look for yourself."

The video was played, and Bruce unconsciously leaned forward.

A burning passenger plane was seen stalling, heading right towards the Daily Planet's tower. The crowds gasped, the person behind the camera shouted something incomprehensible. But then for a brief moment, a heartbeat's worth, it was eerily silent. Everyone nearby held their breath, waiting, dreading to see what would happen next as if following the plane's flight path. How or why it was crashing wasn't mentioned. Bruce would have been more concerned if he hadn't heard the anchor's tone of voice – excited and happy, certainly not grave – but he could see why the civilians were concerned. With that trajectory, the plane _would_ crash.

Abruptly, the whole Earth shook – or maybe it was only the camera – before the ripping, ear piercing shrill of a sonic boom shook the air. It wasn't as loud as a fighter jet, but that was because it didn't carry the sound of a powered engine, something Bruce would learn a few moments later. The noise rocked through him all the same.

It was Bruce's turn to hold his breath. The same figure in blue and red was instantly under the plane, carrying it in the opposite direction to a vacated road like the three hundred-thousand-pound aircraft was a mere feather. There was a burst of flashing red, and he then proceeded to split the plane's fuselage apart from the burning wings like paper, _with his bare hands._

The person behind the camera gasped, _"What the –_ " _BLEEP._

Somehow the fire was put out. Just like that. The wings glittered like it had been frosted with ice. How? Bruce wondered, mind running a mile a minute. The emergency doors of the plane opened up and people started filtering out.

Alfred sighed next to him, obviously relieved. Bruce was too. At least it was confirmed they were safe. The figure in blue – the red was a cape, Bruce realized – suddenly rose up and up. The cameraman tried to zoom in for a better look, but the man's face didn't come out clearly at all. Unfortunately, not even his own recognition technology could work with that low of pixilation.

As if sensing he was being watched – of course he was, everyone was watching, who couldn't _not_ – the flying man turned his head directly to the camera. He waved and grinned, teeth gleaming despite the distance, and shot off into the sky like a rocket. Several windows of a nearby high-rise shattered with the force. The video shook again, and the person behind the camera said in awe, _"What the – " BLEEP._

The video cut off, and the news castor continued with the report. But Bruce didn't hear any of it.

Because for the first time in a long, long time, Bruce was confronted by the fear of the unknown.

He turned to Alfred, "That is no human."

"Indeed, sir."

* * *

Bruce shook. It would be simpler to blame it on the influx of caffeine he'd been consuming, but no, there was no denying it.

An alien on Earth.

It had to be. Bruce was sure of it.

Only, he hadn't expected the _thing_ to admit it.

_"I am Kal-El, Kal of the House of El. My home planet was Krypton, but it and my people are no more. I come in peace."_

In flawless English. What fucking alien would say _I come in peace_? It was jargon created by humans for humans. How did it come to learn their culture so thoroughly?

Bruce despised it, would rather see it burned alive – oh and it would, wouldn't it? It would burn and burn, and it would live. The military had dropped bombs – plural – and it came out unscathed. Like fucking magic, the vibrant alien fabric seemed as pristine as the creature in it. Bullets couldn't penetrate its skin. Biological weapons were useless; the alien was a human-sized lymphocyte. The cherry on the cake? It didn't seem to mind, taking no offense to the onslaught, to humanity's retaliation for its existence. It continued to save people as though it had the capacity for empathy. An alien with consciousness, with emotional intelligence... Bruce was floored, mesmerized even. These capabilities were inexplicably more advanced than anything he'd ever seen. It answered the big question – _are we alone –_ but it rose further questions, bigger questions.

Bruce had re-watched the initial video of it sixty-three times, backwards, forwards, a frame a second, ten thousand frames per second. There wasn't much to go off of. But then the alien made more appearances. Saving people from tsunamis, soldiers on either side of wars, civilians from bridges, and the odd assistance helping a senior cross the street. People began to accept the alien. Somewhere along the line, the United Nations came to a truce, going as far as to advocate for it. It was becoming less of a stranger to society as their fear molded into admiration.

Bruce, however, was given the responsibility to _doubt_.

What did it have to gain in these rescue attempts? Why wasn't it destroying civilization? Why did it show up on Earth? Could it have simply been by chance? No – the odds were one in trillions. How did it get here? How far was Krypton? Were there more hospitable planets carrying more infinitely powerful, intelligent, anthropomorphic beings? Kal-El had implied originating from a planet with a civilized society. Objectively, the extraterrestrials of Krypton had been a species with a society infinitely more evolved than any on Earth, seeing as they had achieved what humanity would likely never accomplish within Bruce's lifetime: interstellar travel. This was ground-breaking.

From a distance, and when it stood on the ground, it looked uncannily human. But its eyes gave it away. Either a piercing red, capable of destroying anything in their path, or that iridescent blue as luminous as the stars in the sky... they could never be mistaken for a human's.

Luthor called it a god. The people saw the alien as something perfect. Bruce disagreed. It didn't feel fear, desperation, not in the essential way humans did. It could never properly integrate itself into society and experience a fulfilled life. The alien would always be just that – an alien. People would use him, try to destroy him, or be blinded in reverie. And like the Batman, it chose to don a cape, with or without awareness of the burden that came with it. It would never be able to save everyone, to please everyone, to cure any and every ailment. No amount of super-strength or speed would defeat corruption, hate, and war.

The alien was doomed for failure, and Bruce wondered how long it would be before the red cape disappeared.

They were all wrong. It was no god.

Mostly – mostly, Bruce was overcome by dread. This creature would be the end of their world; it was only a matter of time. It was helping Earth now, but for how long? There had to be a failsafe, and if that responsibility had to be Bruce's, then he would see it done.

Bone-chilling terror had bled into him, and rather than exploiting it and drawing from it to improve, he wrestled with the fear as though it were an adversary. For the most part, as long as he focused on the end-goal, which was to find a way to contain something uncontainable, then Bruce could shove his apprehension to the back of his mind.

Everything had a vulnerability, and Bruce would find it. Rationally, nothing could be perfect. It was difficult to remember this when faced with humanity's ideal, but just as its consciousness was what made it dangerous, unpredictable, and predisposed to persuasion, it was also its weakness.

Research had become easier when Bruce got his own cameras up and running. The alien seemed to favour Metropolis, either attracted to its flashy colours like a cat after a laser or finding some emotional connection to it. Could it feel emotions? At least, to the equivalent depth as the average human?

He ran it through his software, ran the calculations, did the math. The alien wasn't flying, not in purity. Flying was a concept that aligned with physics. Flight implied enough opposing force was created to overcome gravitational force to get lift. _Flight_ was gravity deceiving you into thinking you've won, giving you a taste, the wrong key to the cage you were trapped in. Bruce's eyes raked over the still frame, data from the gravimeter filtering over it. A parallel shot with thermal imaging accompanied it. The heat signature amassed into one source. The gravitational pull around the alien had shifted. _It_ was warping gravity well beyond what was appropriate for its mass. Bending gravity to its will. Jesus Christ.

They called it _Superman_ , as if it were man.

"Master Wayne," Alfred emerged from what appeared to be thin air, "Your guests are arriving."

"I'm busy."

Alfred grimaced, "You have already pushed 'fashionably late'."

Finally, finally, Bruce had captured a somewhat stable image of its face. It was still blurry – and it was too much of a coincidence that _all_ of Bruce's shots were fuzzy – but at least there was more to go off of. Blue eyes, strong features. It looked healthy, skin glowing like it fed off the sun.

Now, _there_ was a thought. He'd need to run some comparisons, but it would be difficult on video of flybys alone. Bruce had to think bigger. It would be a risky project, and anyone closely monitoring his accounts would get suspicious by the large withdrawals, but he could modify his satellite.

Bruce zoomed in on the alien's face, removing the filters. When it wasn't smiling, Superman's eyes were its most notable feature, a colour so vivid, they appeared to emit their own light. How did its vision work? It was able to safely perceive incoming objects while traveling at supersonic speeds, and it could see through just about anything from who the hell knew what maximum range. Could it see _through_ objects? That would prove to be problematic, but given the circumstances, it was highly likely. It would explain Superman's ability to pinpoint the precise location of a situation, even those indoors, from high altitudes. There was no way to guarantee it, but if there was any science behind it at all, Bruce theorized the alien's vision had radiographic properties. Its visual capacity likely allowed him to see wavelengths beyond visual light on the electromagnetic spectrum. But too what extent?

Bruce would line his cowl with lead, for all the good that would do. The lenses he installed could be reinforced lead crystal. On the other hand, if there was magic at play, then Bruce had an entirely different problem to deal with. 

" _Master Wayne_ ," Alfred's sharp tongue sliced through his train of thought, "Perhaps it is time to get dressed."

"You're displeased," Bruce observed, "Why?"

To Bruce's confusion, Alfred looked ready to throw his hands up in the air, which was as drastic as anyone else flipping a table, "I understand your concerns regarding Earth's new guest. However, in the midst of this fixation, you have begun to abandon your other responsibilities such as your work under Wayne Enterprises and as a _father_."

"Alfred – " Bruce wanted to argue, but the man was right – always was. He swallowed, exhaled, "How is he?"

"You would find it more appropriate to ask him yourself, sir," he sniffed.

"...Right," he peeled off his cowl. How Alfred put up with him for so long remained a mystery, "I don't pay you enough."

"On the contrary, you pay quite handsomely, Master Wayne. Perhaps you could extend your generosity towards your health," Alfred suggested. He turned to leave, "Shall I inform the guests that their host will not be in attendance?"

Bruce glared at the blue and red image one last time before switching off the monitor, "Have the helicopter ready."

He was hosting, but the gala wasn't in the Manor. Bruce hadn't let a stranger step foot onto the grounds in years, excluding the essential attendants under Alfred's approval, and he didn't plan on changing that anytime soon.

The party for the evening was in one of his buildings in Metropolis, and if he had ulterior motives for holding it there, Alfred didn't need to know about it.

Assuming by the side-eye, Alfred read him like an open book anyways. However, the butler did nod, "Very good, sir."

* * *

Bruce whispered sweet nothings into her ear. She giggled, looking nothing short of stunning in her crystal dress. He felt sorry for her. Bruce Wayne was beguiling. Magazine perfect. He'd hate to be in her shoes and on the receiving end of his charms, because to the weaker of hearts, he came across as a man you could fall for – reputation be damned. While she was distracted, he slipped his glass of champagne into the vase of flowers behind her. The lilies and roses likely cost more than the glittering earring dangling next to his lips. The bouquet was pretty, of course, but the colours were too monochromatic in their palette, too stylized. Fake. It was something Bruce Wayne would like.

But them something caught his eye.

He pulled away from her a little too sharply.

She pulled back too, expression confused, kind, "Bruce? Is something wrong?"

"Sorry, Angela," he ignored her, standing to his feet, tripping a little because Bruce Wayne lost count an hour ago. Words slurred slightly, keeping it subtle enough to be believable, "One – one moment."

"My name's Amanda."

Bruce wasn't listening, already on his way over to the other side of the room. There were too many obstacles in the way, too many people holding delicate glasses and wearing expensive clothing. Bumping into anyone would draw unwanted attention. Stealth may have been easier in a cluster of bodies, but time was of the essence. Bruce's sights were set on a man he'd been hoping to ignore for the rest of the night.

Luthor had been on Batman's radar ever since his speech against Superman. Bruce had been expecting the man to be in attendance, but he hadn't thought the imp to be brazen enough to commit a crime in such a public space. Luthor's methods tended to be sly; however, this was a total outlier. Bruce supposed Luthor's latest obsession was making him careless.

Not wanted to be spotted by either party until he was close enough, Bruce approached them from their side. Luthor, he had the misfortune of knowing; the other man remained a mystery. Something glinted at his chest. The lanyard around his neck. It was a press pass. A reporter?

Bruce narrowly dodged a woman with a helpful serving of red wine in her hand.

"Excuse me," he muttered, making his way over. Nearly there.

He could begin to hear their conversation and Luthor's nasally voice, "C'mon, you seem tense, Kent! It's just business, you know how it is."

The poor reporter had a softer voice, deceptively meek, for he impossibly challenged the influential, thorny billionaire that was Luthor, "Sir, I'm afraid I need a statement. What you're doing poses a risk to – "

"Lex!" Bruce exclaimed suddenly and clasped his shoulder. Both men startled – excellent, he hadn't lost his touch – and with a loose elbow, he knocked over the glass in the reporter's grip. It smashed, shattering on impact.

A few heads turned. But once they saw who it was, they carried on as though nothing happened. Brucie was just being Brucie, nothing new. A perk of embarrassing himself so often, people became immune to it. They immediately associated idiocrasy with Bruce Wayne. Dick thought it was hilarious, but it wasn't. It was necessary.

Bruce Wayne never apologized for anything, so he just chattered, "How's the company? Last I heard, you were going bankrupt!"

Both Luthor and – _Clark Kent, Daily Planet_ , Bruce read – were staring at the broken mess with vastly different expressions. Luthor looked pissed, and Bruce revelled in it. Kent himself was jaw slacked, glancing between his own hand, the glass, and Bruce like he was still trying to process what happened. A powder was lacing the red liquid on the ground, but it wasn't noticeable unless you were looking for it.

More importantly, who the hell was Kent, and why did Luthor just try to roofie him?

LexCorp wasn't his business in every meaning of the word, but Luthor was digging his paws into Superman, and _that_ was Bruce's business. Luthor had been on his radar these past few weeks, but he hadn't been a priority. This was the third time in a week that Bruce had dealt with a Luthor incident. Bruce was starting to think that he should be gauging LexCorp more carefully from now on. Kent mentioned a risk... Bruce sincerely hoped none of this was connected, but he couldn't rely on hope alone. Luthor required further investigation. The man wasn't all bark, for once. What if he was taking action?

"Careful there, you'll jinx it on yourself," Luthor shrugged him off, glaring at Bruce like he spoiled his diabolical plans. Bruce probably just did, "You're mixing me up with Queen. Besides, last I heard, you were prancing around with those lingerie Angels in Prague, while your people ran your company."

Bruce's brows rose, "Ralph Lauren actually."

"Those models were men," Luthor sneered, as if he wasn't raving over Superman's _perfection_ every other minute.

Lips stretching into a smirk, Bruce turned to Kent, "Speaking of fine men...."

He made a show of giving the reporter a once over. Kent was tall and wide, and Bruce estimated they had a similar build. His suit was thrifted, and there was far too much excess fabric to be doing the man any favours. It would be a good cover for weapons, but there wasn't a hint of violence to him, not unlike most Metropolitans. Bruce noted the skewed tie as though the man fussed with it often, pen and notepad easily accessible and tucked away in his breast pocket.

Bruce met his eyes, "Who's this?"

"Right, uh, sorry. Clark Kent," that timid voice again. Kent was red in the face, "Daily Planet. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce saw the outstretched hand and took it, offering an equally limp shake to Kent's own. But he had to school his features so not to give away his surprise. Clark had soft hands, baby soft, with not a hint of callouses on the side of his finger – odd for a reporter who'd be writing a lot. Then again, typing was the new black.

Before letting go, and for the sole purpose of giving Luthor nightmares, Bruce brought the knuckle to his lips. The motion was slow enough for Kent to back away if he wanted to. He didn't. He didn't react at all.

And if the brush of skin against his lips sent an unwarranted shiver down his spine, that was only for him to know. Bruce blamed it on the man's cool gaze. His eyes were blue, a shade just as soft as the man's voice, but they were unwavering, reading him, assessing him as he did him.

"The pleasure is all mine," he said lowly.

"I – I –"

Bruce could have him for the night, if he really wanted – and he did want. The man was handsome, in a modest sort of way. His cheekbones were nice. Strong neck. He smelled amazing. His posture could use some work, and the glasses would have been unflattering on anyone else. Somehow it was a cohesive look. Kent wasn't Wayne's usual type. Most of his partners were flashy, physically smaller, and feminine if not women. Kent didn't give off any of that. He was earthy. The kind that became more and more gorgeous the longer you looked.

Luthor had scoffed and left. Bruce couldn't recall when.

"Looks like I scared him off. Sorry about that," Bruce didn't sound apologetic at all, kissing a knuckle again sweetly, "How about I make it up to you?"

It was an offer, plain as day. Kent was a grown man; he would understand. And what better way to learn more about what made Kent so special? Bruce could keep an eye on him. Keep him safe. Luthor would try again. Maybe not immediately – he'd be having a temper-tantrum right around now – but by the end of the night. The pest was stubborn like that.

Bruce gave him his best Wayne smile, all teeth.

To his surprise, Kent cleared his throat and offered a tight-lipped smile to counter his own, pulling his hand back. He proposed, "How about an interview? Wayne Enterprises has made substantial contributions this past month. I'd love to hear more."

Not what he'd been expecting. Maybe he'd read Kent all wrong. Bruce had thought for sure the man was interested, if not curious. A shame, really, but sex wasn't his primary end goal. An interview was still on the table, and Bruce could work with that.

He pretended like it didn't bother him, instead grinning. Keeping his tone in that higher intonation he reserved for his daytime job, Bruce made sure a few people were within earshot when he replied, "Anything for you, Clarkie. Let's find somewhere more private."

"Please don't call me that."

"Sure thing, sweetheart."

There was an annoyed sigh.

Bruce placed a hand between his shoulder blades, guiding him to the outer halls. Several heads turned their way, some with jealousy burning in their eyes and others with disgust, as Bruce took what they believed was his latest conquest for the night. Kent had stiffened under the touch, and not in a good way. Hm. Never one to push, never like that, Bruce wordlessly withdrew his hand. The effect was instantaneous. Kent relaxed when he did, deflating like a balloon and slouching even further. Bruce couldn't remember the last time he'd met someone so visibly responsive – that was, everything but the man's eyes, but perhaps it was just the glasses.

Bruce glanced at him.

The urge to grab those clunky glasses and toss them across the hall was a compulsion he wouldn't succumb to, no matter how badly he wanted it. For one thing, it wasn't appropriate. For another, imagine getting frustrated by a pair of prescription glasses that a person was relying on to _see_ , all so he could get a better read of their behaviour. Christ. Bruce was such an asshole.

"Are you enjoying the night so far?" he made conversation, willing his troubled thoughts away.

Kent admitted, "Galas aren't for me."

At least he was honest. It was a breath of fresh air. Bruce could have replied with plenty of different quips, but after an intense internal debate, he settled with returning the sincerity, "Can I trust you to keep a secret?"

That startled a laugh out of him, full-bodied and heartfelt.

It was contagious, and Bruce found himself chuckling too, already expecting the response.

"I'm a reporter, Mr. Wayne."

_Ah, there it was._

But the corner of Kent's mouth quirked up, "But yes. I can keep a secret."

"I'll count on it," Bruce weighed the consequences, breathing carefully. Flirting hadn't worked, but they could find camaraderie. Both hoping to earn Kent's trust and finally given an opportunity to just _say it,_ he did, unable stop the tumble of words from spilling out, "Truth is, I hate these events."

Kent's expression turned thoughtful, and he was silent for a moment before he admitted, "I won't lie. That's surprising. But I believe you."

"I only show up to flaunt my wealth. Can't have my competition thinking poorly of me," he exclaimed jovially. 

Kent didn't have anything to say to that, not that he could blame him. You couldn't get more pretentious than Bruce Wayne.

"Joking," Bruce's grinned faltered, "Sort of."

Kent didn't frown, but Bruce caught himself staring at his mouth anyways.

Only, he looked back up to find that Kent was already observing him, eyes unblinking. Bruce _really, really_ wanted to chuck those glasses off his face. There was hardly any reason to be embarrassed for getting caught, so he said offhandedly, "You've got nice lips."

The reaction was worth it.

Frazzled and blushing, Kent pushed up his glasses. He mumbled out a hesitant, "Thanks."

Cute.

But there was no sense in pining over someone he wouldn't get out of his system. Then it simply became a distraction. Bruce would get what information he needed from Kent, and then they'd be on their merry way, never to see each other again.

Bruce led them to the lounge in a room opposite of the entrance. It was an open space entirely abandoned by the partygoers in favour of the ballroom. The ceiling stretched up and up above their heads, and ornamenting it was a massive chandelier, bathing the room in gold. To him, it was just another room. Bruce had grown used to this sort of extravagance, and the constant exposure to it had contributed to his loss of appreciation for luxury. But Kent's eyes had widened when they stepped in, and Bruce found himself taking in the reaction. Dick had been the same.

Bruce threw himself down onto one of the sofas, propping his feet up on the gold-plated table, "So, Mr. Kent, down to business."

"I have to thank you for this opportunity, Mr. Wayne," Kent was polite.

He sat politely too. Tucked into himself, hunched, almost as if he were scared to be here. But Bruce didn't believe that at all. Kent would meet Bruce's stare head-on when others would look away. He had argued with Luthor, a man who was known not to "take disrespect from anybody". Kent wasn't intimidated by powerful men; he couldn't be, shouldn't be, not as a reporter. So, the body language was... off, to say the least, and Bruce almost suspected it was intentional, if not for the lack of motivation behind it. There was nothing for a shy journalist to gain.

"Please," he waved his hands, "Call me Bruce."

A server offered him a glass, and Bruce grabbed it without sparing her a glance. He didn't fake it this time and took an actual sip, trying not to grimace – champagne was too sweet and alcohol a blow to his health – because Clark's eyes were heavy on him, too observant, too alert. It rose the hairs on his skin. 

Not getting a response, Bruce gestured with his arm, drink sloshing, "Fire away, Mr. Kent."

Damn him and his thick lashes.

"May I record this interview?"

"Be my guest."

Kent pulled out his phone, presumably to start recording, "I'll start off with some of the basics. How are –"

The reporter stopped midsentence, freezing.

Bruce wished he could read whatever rush of emotions passed through his eyes. Nerves? It wouldn't be the first time. When the silence dragged on for long enough, he asked, "Is something wrong?"

Silently, Kent tucked away his phone, pocketing it again before Bruce could have a glimpse of what was on the screen. The man apologized, "I'm sorry, but there's an emergency. I'll have to get the story covered."

Damn it. He needed more info on Kent, "Rain check?"

"Really?" he seemed surprised, brows popping up. Bruce would be too, in his position, "I mean, yes of course! Thank you very, ow – " in his haste to get up, his leg bumped into the sharp corner of the table. Ouch. Kent absentmindedly pressed a hand against his thigh where it would surely bruise tomorrow, and Bruce was left a little distracted – the man had nice legs, and no no-name suit could hide that, " – thank you very much for your time, Mr. Wayne. I'll – I'll see you again."

Kent disappeared in a flurry, and Bruce watched him go with a calculating look in his eye.


	2. Green

Suffice to say, Bruce now had two extra problems to deal with. Luthor's meddling was something he'd been countering since childhood. That he could handle as per usual. Kent on the other hand, was a deviation which imbalanced the table. To his displeasure, Bruce was working with too many unknowns, but he could do something to change that.

It was only sensible that Batman conducted his own research on the reporter.

Clark Kent was an investigative journalist for the Dailey Planet who avoided fluff pieces like a plague. It made Bruce wonder what business he had at a gala. Certainly not a celebrity glossy.

His writing style was mediocre at best, a tad too flowery and far too wishful to be taken seriously. Lois Lane outshined him for her cutting words and critical flair, but that didn't mean Clark hadn't landed his own headlines. Despite the unwarranted idealism, Bruce found his content to be well-sourced and credible. He laid out the evidence for his readers, connecting data that appeared to lack correlation at face value, and even critiqued his own work when there were obvious flaws. Kent thought outside the box, and this made his stories successful. The topics of his articles were areas which Bruce too was interested in: corruption, politics, crime, world issues. As it were, without realizing, Bruce had read Kent's work to assist him with his own cases in the past.

But none of this explained Kent's connection to Luthor.

That was, until Bruce took notice of Kent's affiliation with Superman.

Kent was an investigator. Luthor had a sleazy history. They were bound to cross paths, but there was more to it: both men were connected to the alien. There was nothing explicit to prove it, but Bruce wasn't nicknamed the World's Greatest Detective – hearsay he didn't have to like to acknowledge – for no reason. Deductive and inductive reasoning depended on patterns, or the lack thereof. And Kent was _swimming_ in it.

Approximately thirty-one percent of Kent's published articles were written about Superman. This would have been overlooked seeing as the Daily Planet was a Metropolitan company, and if it wanted to cater to its consumers, most of the Planet's content would have to revolve around the city's guardian angel. Kent, however, was suspiciously objective when he wrote about the alien. His writing style completely changed. If Bruce hadn't seen the "Clark Kent" written under each title, Bruce would have thought it was someone else's work. The sugary coating had vanished into thin air. He laid out the facts of the events, rarely every hinting his personal opinions. This was odd in itself, Kent or no Kent, as the media had labelled Superman as the manifestation of hope. Editors had the tendency to push their writers to gush when in came to Superman to cater to the wants of the public. Someone as optimistic as Kent would have been on cloud nine.

The theory was far-fetched, but it added up. Lois Lane worked with Kent, and she and Superman were spotted interacting too frequently to be coincidental. Superman and Kent would have crossed paths at some point. None of this described what his relationship with Superman was, nor how close, or if there even was one to begin with, but Bruce would bet his money on Kent having made contact with the alien.

That would be enough to grab Luthor's attention, wouldn't it?

But why not go after Lane?

What did Kent have on Superman that Lane didn't?

Bruce grunted.

Kent's behaviour was something that Bruce had seen countless of times. People who wanted to hide things sometimes hid it _too_ well. They exposed themselves by acting like there was nothing to hide. Luthor, on the other hand, wasn't shy of his opinions of the alien. Compared to LexCorp, Bruce's extensive research on Superman seemed subpar.

And if Luthor could have his way, Superman would already be dead.

Bruce didn't want the alien murdered in cold blood, and certainly not for the reasons Luthor did – " _he's flawless, the true epitome of the ideal, the perfect creation. He doesn't belong amongst humanity, overshadowing our hard work, what are we in the face of a god who walks among us_ " – etcetera. It all gave him a headache.

Bruce would see no pleasure in its death, but Superman needed a buffer in case things went wrong. There had to be a fuse to stop the current. Batman would do everything he could in short of killing it, and even that would be a last resort, but... but if he had to. If he had to.

He let out a shaky breath.

... – _So_ , if his research had been thorough, and he didn't overlook any outliers, the only tangible connection Luthor and Kent had was Superman. The billionaire was up to something, never wasn't. Trouble was brewing, and Kent was caught in the middle of it.

What did this mean?

He spun around in his chair and rested his head back, mindful of the cowl. He closed his eyes.

Bruce came to two plausible conclusions: either Kent despised Superman himself and was working with Luthor, or Kent and Superman were collaborating, and Luthor wanted to get to the alien through the reporter. Considering Luthor had attempted to drug Kent and do god knows what with him, Bruce was betting on the latter. They didn't seem to like each other much either, not that Bruce could blame the man. Luthor wasn't great company. And Kent had said something concerning: _what you're doing poses a risk to –_

A risk to what? To whom?

Kent seemed like a good man. If his articles were anything to go by, it was clear he had a strong sense of justice. He genuinely cared about the wellbeing of others, and unlike many, stood true to these values. Judging by the nature of his stories, the man had risked his life on numerous occasions to get the truth out. Yes, these events could land him a headline, but crime wasn't a favourite read amongst Metropolitans. If he was in it for the fame or money, he'd be handling the gossip column. Investigative journalists tended to be headstrong. Had to be. Bruce had seen them in action more times than he could count. It took tough skin and a true desire to see change for one to last so long.

Really, Bruce couldn't see Kent conspiring with Luthor at all. Not intentionally. Not unless he was tricked.

Luthor wanted something from Kent, or Kent took something from Luthor that he wasn't supposed to. And Kent had a power that no billionaire could buy: a voice.

If Kent was looking into Luthor, and Kent found something worth investigating, then Bruce had every reason to be apprehensive.

Bruce itched to get out his suit, but he wanted to get to the bottom of this before he went for bed.

Hm... He should try hacking into Luthor's system.

So, he did.

Luthor might have bragged about his systems being impenetrable, but Bruce had given Anonymous a run for their money, literally, so LexCorp was a piece of cake. Predictably, he was already deep in their servers within a quarter of an hour.

"Hey, Bruce. What ch'ya doin'?"

 _Dick_. Bruce didn't turn around, keying in specific tags, "You should be asleep."

"Just woke up," the boy wheeled up a seat – a smaller version which Bruce brought in because he was sick of Dick complaining about the bigger ones hurting his neck – and plopped backwards into it, "And I feel ready for the day."

Bruce opened LexCorp's file on Superman. He was already copying the files into his own system. It was a whopping seven terabytes, so it would be a full minute to download.

He glanced at his ward, his son, "I thought I taught you to lie better."

Dick rose a brow, "Y'know, most parents tell their kids _not_ to lie."

"I'm not most parents."

"I know," Dick rested his elbows against the backrest, "You're Batdad."

Did...?

Bruce stopped what he was doing, turning to him.

He said flatly, "You're disowned."

"What?! C'mon, _that_ gets to you?! I've called you worse. Like Bimbat, and Batty Daddy, and – !"

Bruce's expression soured even further, "Dick..."

At least the kid had the sense to look sorry, "Not helping. Got it."

Jokes aside, Dick loved to sleep in after patrol, so seeing him here was concerning. Bruce stated, not a question, "Something's bothering you."

"What? I'm fine," but the boy's eyes were betraying him.

The files finished transferring, and Bruce left LexCorp's servers before he was caught snooping. They wouldn't be able to track him back, but he'd rather not have them aware that someone had broken into their severs. They would tighten their security, and he'd be forced to start from square one. Bruce turned to him, "Dick. If you need to talk..."

"Thanks Bruce. But nothing's wrong! And like, you're busy, and I don't want to bug you, ya know?"

"That's not – "

"Hey, what's that?" he cut him off.

Dick was pointing to an inconspicuous file that Bruce would have overlooked until much later, if it wasn't for the tiny index finger hovering over it. Trusting the kid's intuition, Bruce selected it.

The cave glowed an eerie green.

" _The hell?"_

An image of a green crystal reflected off the lenses of his cowls. It was emitting its own iridescent glow, the vibrant colour pulsing with each of Bruce's breaths.

"Language," Dick chimed.

Bruce skimmed through the reports. He already didn't like this.

_High density... potentially unstable properties... unknown alloy... Krypton... potential to harm Superman..._

Bruce shut off the monitor after catching words which he should be more pleased to see. Instead, a sick feeling dropped and settled and spread through his bones. He could trust himself – to an extent – with a weapon capable of harming Superman, but there was nothing in the universe that could persuade him to wish Luthor the same accessibility. If this rock was as powerful as LexCorp suspected, then Bruce had a larger problem than Superman. If something could hurt the Man of Steel... what could it do to the rest of the planet?

Dick broke him from his thoughts, protesting, "Hey! I was reading that!"

"Go back upstairs," he ordered.

Dick protested, "What? But what's that green rock? Why is it glowing? What does this have to do with Super – "

Bruce was firm, "Dick. Upstairs. Now."

Dick looked up at him, brows furrowed. Without a doubt, Dick would have insisted on helping him, but that was out of the question. The boy had no place with any business concerning the alien. Dick wanted to be Robin? Fine. But there was a level of danger that Bruce was not willing to get him in, and any fight instigated against Superman, be it by him, Luthor, or anyone else, was a risk too great. Before it had all been theory, but the introduction of this rock had reshaped the playing field.

Bruce had to do the ugly things so people like Dick wouldn't need to. The kid didn't know why Bruce was looking into Superman, didn't know that Bruce was trying to find a way to kill it, and he would keep it that way.

Dick must have recognized that Batman was back for the night because he didn't argue, expression resigned, "You should trust me more."

Batman watched him leave, crushing the creeping guilt before it found its way in. He had already made his decision when Robin entered the field. Dick's safety would always come before their feelings.

With Dick upstairs, Batman flicked on his monitor.

What he'd managed to gather disturbed him. The mineral was nicknamed "Kryptonite". LexCorp had a twelve-pound sample in a lab in Metropolis but were on the hunt for more. Unreported, of course. This was undisclosed interplanetary contamination; if Bruce played his cards right, he could take this to court against the company – that was, if Kryptonite wasn't dangerous.

They were also working to build a synthetic version of it. However, going by the mineral's density and chemical composition – there were traces of an unknown atom for god's sake – Bruce had serious doubts about the safety of such experimentation. The alloy was extremely dense, and they suspected it was unstable in terms of radiation though lead barriers proved to be effective. LexCorp had no idea of what power Kryptonite had over Superman, if any. They weren't certain if it held monetary value on Krypton, or if it was ultimately worthless. From the vague notes, Luthor's plan was to lure Superman toward a weaponized version of it for further... testing.

Bruce pulled out his day phone, expression grim as he scrolled through his contacts with a gloved finger. This would be a lousy few weeks.

There were exactly four rings before it was picked up. A voice groggy with sleep and no doubt irritated answered, "Why are you calling me at this ungodly hour, Wayne?"

Batman leaned back into his chair as though he wasn't in full armour, and he grinned widely, "G'morning, Lexie! Remember that partnership we were discussing like, a year ago?"

* * *

Someone was trying to spy on him.

Okay, scratch that – a lot of people were trying to spy on him.

Someone was spying on him, and they were disturbingly good at it.

It had started with an itch he couldn't scratch, an instinctual feeling in his gut that he was being watched. Sort of similar to the feeling he got when his high school teacher "subtly" loomed over his shoulder to check his progress during a test. It didn't feel threatening, but it sure as heck was distracting.

This went on for a while mostly because he blamed it on paranoia, so he didn't look into it any more than he probably should have. He'd expected this, being watched and scrutinized. Clark was an investigative journalist himself; he understood the need to seek the truth. And a figure like Superman would draw out curiosity. Ma had warned him too. "As long as ya have that cape on, you won't have no more privacy", she'd told him. And even if someone _was_ monitoring Superman, there really wasn't anything they could do about it. What did worry him was if they discovered his day job. Clark Kent. Because that meant they'd find out about Ma, or Lois, Jimmy, or the nice barista at his favourite café, and Clark would rather die than see them get hurt or used as leverage.

Messing around with Superman was fine and dandy, but this schmuck was getting too close his personal life and the people in it. His stalker hadn't made any hint of knowing Kent, but who knew for how long.

To keep a paper trail, Clark had been relying on public transport for his official business trips. He'd been mindful about his Superman articles from the get-go. Clark always had alibis – _Oh Kent? Yeah, I saw him at City Hall just a minute ago. Hey check it out, Superman's in Rio de Janeiro!_ It had been enough. Now though, it was obvious he needed to start being extra cautious.

Clark changed his habits. This was something he could deal with. Or heck, you know, it was definitely a good thing that he was being more diligent; he'd been pretty reckless up until now. It would have only been a matter of time before someone caught him. He was more careful not to be spotted when switching uniforms or climbing into his apartment window. Clark even stopped wearing his suit under his clothes on those few, more involved cases, instead choosing to fold the miraculous fabric up into a tiny, tiny cube and tuck it into his shirt pocket. One wrong breeze and the blue would peek through. Clark was working on finding away to get a picture of himself with his other self but that was easier said than done. The camera was hard to time, and it always caught him blurred out. It was apparent that he needed to be precise by the nanosecond. Or he needed a better camera, but his bank account was a few grand short for that. He kept his curtains shut at all times, and he moved around in his apartment like anybody else would. All of this was okay with him. It was what he'd expected.

Clark managed to ignore the prickling sensation of being watched for four months.

But it was getting worse, the feeling of being watched. It crawled across his skin like it was alive.

So, he looked and listened in between rescues and two weeks later, he spotted the cameras, microphones, and thin metal rods that might have been sensors? His skin prickled. Clark really let this get out of hand. This wasn't another one of his stalkers trying to get to know him better. Not at all. It was worse than he thought.

There were dozens, no hundreds of them. He'd even found a few attached to pigeons. They were dome-shaped, dark, and sophisticated in tech that seemed years ahead of NASA. Some were no bigger than half a millimeter and others were the size of an office chair. The larger surveillance equipment looked capable of doing more than basic photography. A lot more. Clark had no way of deciphering these gadgets, but every single one of them had a signature style; they buzzed with harmonious rings. They had to be from the same source, if not connected. At least the equipment was confirmation that his apprehension was justifiable, and that this mystery was ultimately tangible.

Clark had no proof that these were aimed for him, but they were pointed up at the sky in neighbourhoods he frequented, and Clark heard them flicker to life when he got near.

How much did all of this cost? Rao, what if this was government-funded? Clark had really thought they were getting somewhere.

They weren't Luthor's either. LexCorp's equipment was flashier, all bark and no bite, and Superman had encountered enough of LexCorp tech to recognize their designs. He'd been destroying those on sight.

The worst of it was that he understood. He got it. Clark was a freak of nature; it was natural they would want to study him.

But it wasn't right. It wasn't _right_.

This was invasive. Clark was just doing what he could to help. He didn't expect everyone to trust him, but god, he wanted it. It hurt him seeing this, the suspicion. Because no matter how hard he tried, no matter how close he got, there would always be a distance between Superman and the people he wanted to protect. His own home.

Superman picked up one of the more average-sized cameras and stared into the lens as though that would help him figure out who was on the other side. He'd give them a chance to stop, but if this continued, he'd hunt them down and give them one of Ma's lectures – and even her gentlest ones were particularly ruthless.

"You could just talk to me, you know."

And he crushed the thing in his hands.

* * *

The monitor blackened, but Superman's frustrated voice still echoed throughout the cave.

Bruce took a sip of his coffee. Alfred was being passive aggressive again; he'd given him the #1 DAD mug. The steam hit his face in a way that might have been pleasant if it didn't cause the scrapes on his chin to sting.

"My, my," the butler's brows rose, stating the obvious, "It appears you've been discovered."

"I was discovered months ago," Bruce frowned, "What I don't understand is why Superman hadn't acknowledged it until now."

"He must be used to strangers invading his privacy."

There was a jab in there, somewhere. Bruce ignored it. He instead switched his monitor to reassess the LexCorp situation.

Alfred interrupted, "Do you suppose you'll heed his advice?"

"You want me to talk to it?"

"It may be more advantageous for you to approach him on your own terms, rather than the reverse," Alfred paused, "And sir, perhaps referring to him as _it_ is rather harsh."

"It's too soon," Bruce didn't bother addressing the absurdity of Alfred's second comment. It was reasonable that he didn't humanize an _alien_. Especially if... Well, in case.

"As long as it does not become too late," Alfred bowed, "Master Wayne."

He disappeared into the shadows.

Bruce was certain of one thing: he had to get his hands on the Kryptonian mineral and move it is as far away from LexCorp as possible, as soon as possible.

There was a chance Bruce could use the rock as leverage against Superman, if not Luthor. Perhaps Kryptonite had a similar monetary value as diamonds did here on Earth. Diamonds weren't intrinsically valuable, and the marketing scheme was atrocious, but that wasn't the point. He doubted the alien could be bought, but if there was anything that could serve as a weakness, it was something that came from its own home. 

Batman sipped at his coffee. No, that idea was ludicrous. The alien could rule an entire planet if it wanted to. And it would have by now. Clearly, Superman wasn't interested in tyranny or wealth. _For now._

None of this indicated Luthor's urgency to collect and stock up on the mineral.

Hm...

Diamonds _were_ a potential theory. Beyond fashion trends, diamonds could be useful. Perhaps the rock was Krypton's equivalent to Earth's diamond, but in the sense that it was the hardest mineral on their planet - or at least, harder than flesh. Proportionally speaking, it could be capable of cutting through even Superman's skin. Maybe it was why Luthor was desperate for it.

But these were all just ideas, guesses with no evidence to back them up. Bruce couldn't take any action until he'd developed a grounded theory. For that, he'd need a sample.

He closed his eyes, thoughts drifting. Bruce would die in a fight against it, that was almost certain. He could die without Superman even moving a limb. It would only need to _breathe_ on him, and Bruce would be nothing but a frozen corpse at temperatures he predicted could reach approaching zero kelvin. Hell, it could cast its gaze on him and slice him into ribbons. From a mile away.

Alfred was right, however, that he should first attempt to communicate with the alien. A fight was the last thing he needed, even if they were on equal terms – especially on equal terms. The collateral damage would be disastrous, and innocent lives could get caught in the crossfire. That was unacceptable. He'd need a plan to relocate and one which would result in a quick... conclusion. Be it his own death, if not Superman's. That is to say, if one of them had to die.

There had to be another way. Yet Bruce couldn't fathom anything capable of holding Superman down. Nothing could imprison it.

The alien was of an intelligent species. It avoided conflict when necessary, but that was hard to be sure of since most people either kissed its feet or pissed their pants when it spoke. It would be hard to argue with something holding that much power.

Alfred had a good idea. Bruce might be able to get a better understanding of its motives through direct contact. On that note, it was best Superman didn't discover the Batman until he was ready should things go south.

Having a second identity became extremely convenient at times like these.

Bruce was interrupted, a warning popping up in the corner of his monitors.

_Threshold reached by single IP within twelve hours._   
_Keyword(s): Batman (searched 196 times) Bats Gotham (73) GCPD Batman (53) v. Batman (29) Dark knight (27)_   
_Crossed referenced with: Wayne (11) Bruce Wayne (7) Wayne Enterprises (3)_

Jesus. 196 times? On top of everything else. They spent their whole day doing this.

Instead of looking into the timestamps, Bruce traced the IP address. What he found wasn't even surprising. He rubbed his forehead, "Dammit, Kent."

At least the explanation for Kent digging into Wayne was predictable, being the crash and burn that had been their interview. He must have discovered Batman along the way, hence the curiosity. If Clark was putting two and two together, however, there would be a problem. This spelled trouble. Nonetheless, Kent was harmless. He couldn't take it to the papers without evidence. Not unless he wanted to get sued by a multi-million dollar company. Bruce made sure that no one would believe him even if he was exposed. 

The journalist was sinking his teeth into something he couldn't chew, and if Bruce didn't stop him, he'd be stuck cleaning up a mess he didn't have time for. Bruce would look into Kent in the morning, see what he knew. For now, patrol. It was a Friday night, and the GCPD's radios were already starting to fill with chatter. Bruce rose to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> filler-y but I had to cut this chapter because it was getting too long


	3. Grey

Well after the sun had set, Clark handed in his article, seconds before the deadline. It only took so long to finish because he kept getting distracted while working on his own personal project. He cheated at home, reading as much as he could as fast as he could without having to worry about getting caught. But after one news report, it was impossible to stop.

The Batman.

Clark had come across him by chance while he was poking around through Gotham's political and crime history. Embarrassingly, he'd found himself looking into Gotham in particular because of a certain Bruce Wayne. But, Clark pressed his lips together, that wasn't someone he wanted to think about right then.

The idea of Batman piqued his interest. It had begun with a vague sense of intrigue and hit off with a spark. Clark wanted to be sure this wasn't an enemy or someone that had to be stopped. Or on a positive note, maybe he could find an ally in this Batman.

It was strange. Superman had visited Gotham several times for rescues and a couple interviews, yet he had never heard of him until now, despite the Bat being a major aspect of the city's culture. Gotham wasn't a town in the middle of nowhere like Smallville was, and the events of the city often hit a lot of international news outlets. It was like someone was covering him up. This only made Clark more determined to get to the bottom of this.

Unfortunately, what Clark did manage to gather only left him more unsure.

No one even knew if Batman was real. Witnesses reported a "demon of darkness", a black shadow sent from the depths of hell to punish those who wronged. They used words like merciless, violent, a ghost—a ghost capable of touch, who left people bleeding, Clark thought. _Vigilante._ Some people didn't believe in the Batman at all. A common conspiracy theory spreading around was that Batman was an outdated rumour, fabricated by the police to scare criminals away. For the most part, Gotham was downright terrified of Batman. Since his appearance – when this first was, exactly, was difficult to determine; Batman was never spotted on camera – crime rates had dropped by nearly if not over half. Batman even reopened decade-old cold cases and solved them.

Clark counted that as a win, definitely. But the vigilante's methods had him caught in the middle.

Even the Gotham police seemed to have mixed feelings. Reports stated that they and Batman had collaborated to take down members of organized crime, serial killers, and national scammers among some. But with each case, dozens of attempts to arrest the Batman followed through. Understandably. Just like Superman, Batman worked outside the law, and help or no help, he was legally a criminal. Lois had called their relationship an enemies with benefits sort of one when he asked.

After confessing in an interrogation dated five years ago, one felon reported, "You don't even see it coming. One moment you're doing your thing with the boys, and the next, they're all on the ground half dead. It's – BLEEP – awful is what it is."

What caught Clark's interest was what he said next, "That _thing_ ain't no human. It took on twenty of my men, armed with the best n' all at once, man. And it _won_. It punched through a mother – _BLEEP –_ brick wall _._ "

Was it possible? Was there another person out there with powers? Because the likelihood of a regular man being capable of any of that wasn't only low, it was inconceivable. Now, this was a farfetched idea, but could Batman be Kryptonian?

"Don't matter where you run, don't matter where you hide," a woman looked the camera dead in the eye, "He'll find you."

In another interview, with scarred skin and dull eyes, "Batman makes you wish you were dead."

Batman didn't kill, not outright anyways. It was still manslaughter, beating people to a pulp and leaving them for dead. Sometimes the police didn't make it in time. Batman left criminals in such a state that they declined in the hospital and did die - not often, but that didn't put less value on any of their lives. He hurt people, maybe tortured them, but Batman never dealt the finishing blow. Whatever skewed up sense of morality Batman had, it needed some adjusting.

He'd seen some photos. In one set, seven bodies damaged beyond repair; two with injuries that left them paraplegic, and one of which whose head had been hit with such ferocity, it left him blind. That wasn't justice. That was done in a fit of rage.

He was certain of a few things: Batman inflicted pain, but he did not directly kill. He solved crimes – even unsolvable crimes. He'd almost always leave substantial evidence for court, suggesting he believed in the judicial system to some degree. No one had ever seen him well enough to describe his appearance beyond terrible and bat-like. Batman only worked at night. And finally, there was heavy controversy about his existence and position in society's strict boxing of 'good' or 'bad'.

There was a piece to the puzzle that he was missing: Batman's motivation. What led him to this path? What kept him going? Why did it have to be through these inhumane methods? And - 

And Clark wanted to meet him.

He had a feeling that any sort of run-in with the Batman would be safer as a civilian. From his research, Batman never hurt anyone innocent. If anything, he did what he could to protect them. That much was obvious. Clark could respect that, but it still wasn't enough to justify the violence.

Clark Kent was a stranger to him. It was the perfect chance to observe this so-called Dark Knight without interfering. Clark needed to see if the rumours were true, if Batman was dangerous. Was he doing the right thing but going about it the wrong way? Or was this just an excuse to hurt people? Clark wanted to understand his motives, the _why_ 's. If not to help or stop him, then to have a peace of mind. And getting information was literally his career.

For now, he didn't want Batman knowing Superman had caught onto him. This was an opportunity to observe as an outsider. He'd drop in as Superman later, once he'd determined if he'd be there as friend or foe. First, he wanted to investigate this as Clark Kent. Not for any official article but for Batman. A side project, if you will.

He still wore his suit underneath just in case things turned sour.

It was important he made sure he waited an hour or two in case he was spotted. It wouldn't do to have separate photos or witnesses of him at the same time in cities hours apart. Not that anyone was paying attention to Clark, but apparently there were eyes on Superman, and Clark was trying to be less reckless now.

Clark bought some round-trip train tickets and kept the receipt should anyone question him, but he didn't get on it when it departed. He wasn't fond of public transportation and avoided it when he could. Clark was essentially trapped inside. He couldn't leave in an emergency without drawing attention, they were slow, and he'd seen enough accidents in his lifetime. Clark was beginning to associate vehicles and danger with one another; they went hand-in-hand more often than he'd like.

The waiting was the hardest part, so he rescued some stranded sailors drowning in a tropical storm and found a few hikers lost in Canada's Northern forests. They thanked him, and Clark hugged them tight because he couldn't fathom going so long without human contact.

He made his way back to his apartment and grabbed his normal clothes to throw onto his uniform. Superman would retire for the night, but Clark Kent had a job to do.

A quick glance at his watch told him it'd been long enough.

Within seconds, he was dropping down near the edge of Gotham. Clark got a glimpse of downtown on his way down; it was especially beautiful. The city bathed in golds and blues unlike Metropolis' assortment of colour. And Gotham certainly lived up to its name. It was modern and sleek, but gothic-styled infrastructure held its core. Gargoyles decorated the city left and right, looming over the roads and streets like protectors in the night sky. It was too bad Clark wasn't here to sightsee. Maybe some other time.

He ordered a hot mocha with extra whip from an under-the-rug café that was still open, betting on the prop adding to his disguise as an inconspicuous pedestrian finishing up an overtime at the office. Plus, the sugar quelled his nerves, and he could never say no when he was craving something sweet.

"Excuse me, um..." Clark had asked the barista, "Do you know anything about the Batman?"

She looked at him incredulously, "Not really."

"Oh. That's okay. What are your thoughts on him?"

"He's cool. Keeps us safe. Makes walking home easier, at least."

"Thanks. Enjoy the rest of your night," Clark nodded and dropped a tip into the café's jar. That was good to hear, at least.

He pushed up his glasses and kept searching for clues. Clark asked dozens more people, even the shadier of the bunch, but no one had any clear answers. Clark had been trailing bed crumbs for hours. One guy spat in his face and told him to get lost, which was nice.

It occurred to him that maybe he was asking the wrong people.

Clark approached one of the many of the homeless occupying the quieter streets of downtown, "Hello, miss."

Her hair was greasy and the lines on her face, deep. There was a strength to her shoulders that hinted she could hold her own. She was holding up a sign, but since her spot was in the shadows, Clark doubted many people got to read it. Honestly, he was surprised she was awake. It was almost two in the morning, and the foot traffic was dwindling.

"Robin?" she set her sign down, smiling, and her eyes settled just over his shoulder, "If I knew you'd be coming early tonight, I'd have saved ya some of my donut."

"Robin?" Clark repeated. A car drove by, headlights bight, and it occurred to Clark that the woman was blind, her pupils unresponsive. He quickly amended himself, "Oh, sorry miss. My name is Clark."

"Oh. Oh, I see. No one calls me miss 'cept for that boy," let out a shaky breath, "Spare a dollar?"

Clark reached into his pocket. He only had a two twenties, but he fished them out of his wallet, tucking the crumpled bills into her outstretched hand. He laughed when she brushed her hand over the paper and realized it was a lot more than a dollar, "It's all yours."

She handed back half of it, despite his protests, "A little birdie once promised me a house. I said no. Know why? I don't want it when I know there are people out there doing worse than me. Give the rest to someone who needs it more."

Clark had to crack a smile, "I can't argue with that."

"God bless you, Clark. You need anything, you tell me," as if hearing his smile, she returned it with a grin.

He rubbed the back of his neck, "Actually, I wanted to bother you with something. Do you know where I can find the Batman?"

"Funny that. Robin's favourite thing in the world is Batman. He's a popular fellow around here," she chuckled fondly, "I can help you. On one condition."

Clark didn't hesitate, "What is it?"

"You tell me why you want to find him," she said. Her tone was deceptively light.

His response was sincere, "I only want the truth."

She pushed, "And when you find it?"

This he had to think about. It was a fair question; one he didn't have an answer to. Truth was, Clark didn't know what he'd do, but he was certain of one thing, "I want to do what's right."

The woman blinked, once, twice, and then nodded slowly, "...Okay. I'll tell you what I know," she curled into her sweater, "Batman shows up wherever and whenever he wants to. You won't find him unless he wants it. Police have been after him for years and nothing."

Clark's heart sank, but he persisted, "Is there anywhere he tends to frequent?"

"Hops from this neighbourhood to one across the city in minutes. Heard he can fly. But..." she paused, "If you're brave enough, stick around in the East side. Lot's of crime happening there. He's bound to show up sooner or later."

East side. Of course. A while back, Clark had read some studies about historical pollution congregation caused by the prevailing winds moving from the West and its lasting effect on the socioeconomic status of the area. It explained why so many cities had poorer East ends. Pollution, poverty, and crime were all tied together. He'd referenced it in one of his articles. With a city as populated as Gotham, it was no wonder the theory also applied here.

Clark touched her shoulder, "Thank you, miss. You've been a great help."

"Batman does a lot of good around here. I hope you see it too one day," she said, "Come back around, Clark. If you get a chance."

"Will do. Give my regards to Robin."

"Promise," she crossed her fingers.

He made his way through the dark alleys of Gotham's borders, far from the hubbub of the city center. He wished he knew what he was looking and listening for. It'd make his job a heck of a lot easier. The best he could do was ask around or find criminals and hope that Batman showed up too.

Clark leisurely walked through a residential area. It was harder to appreciate the gothic structures and architecture without the steady stream of light to give it life.

It wasn't like in the movies. The alleyways didn't have cats knocking over trash cans or hooded strangers leaning against graffiti-covered walls, smoke wafting out of their cigarettes. No, the streets away from the center were silent, deserted, and dark. The gargoyles cast shadows in the shadows. The stillness of Gotham's outskirts was not what he had expected, unlike Metropolis with its relaxed nightlife. No one was outside going for a late jog or sitting on their porch with a bottle of beer. There were pedestrians, but all of them kept their eyes straight ahead and walked with purpose.

But it wasn't entirely still.

There were sounds of gunshots in the distance – there always were. But Gotham was special. Clark could count twenty-three acts of violence happening in that given moment, all within ten miles of him. There was a wrongness to it, but Clark had to pick and choose his battles. Because no matter what he did, where he went, or how hard he tried, there would always be injustice. It was a part of humanity. He was learning to accept that. As Pa once said, he couldn't save everybody, and he couldn't save them from themselves. But Clark didn't think there was any harm in offering a helping hand once in a while.

Usually, Clark was able to drown out the noise but not here. There was so much of it.

Without fairness, an image crossed his mind, one of a younger Bruce Wayne watching his parents breathe their last breath. And he wasn't the only child in the world who'd had to suffer through that. It was different, to have your parents ripped away from you so unfairly. Clark wouldn't call himself lucky, but at least he was able to understand his dad's death. He had to watch Pa die in a hospital bed, and Clark was entirely powerless to save a suffocating heart. It had been unbearable. All his strength and he could do nothing but hold his hand.

Clark swallowed, willing his thoughts away before it became a train wreck.

He crept through the shadows, climbing and hopping over a few fences, trespassing a few times, and feeling an awful lot like a criminal himself. Clark hadn't ever been in this position, not really. Not on the ground, in a dark city, walking like civilians did when there was active crime happening all around him. No flight, no suit, and no cape.

This was different. Superman caught crime from the skies, senses outstretched to detect millions upon millions of cues at once. Clark was just Clark.

Three consecutive cracks in the air had him tense. Gunshots, closer than before. Maybe less than half a mile away.

They were loud enough to be heard by the few pedestrians milling around. Some didn't bat an eye, maybe having grown up in this neighbourhood, though there were a few who hurried away in the opposite direction. Clark was the only one who actively sought out the violence, speed walking towards the chilling sounds.

Another shot was fired.

It was suddenly natural to want to duck his head and hide behind cover – he didn't, though he probably should in case someone asked questions, but there wasn't time for that, and there wasn't anyone around anymore to see.

Clark didn't shy away from bullets, nor had he felt the paralyzing fight-or-flight that many had when facing a gun. He didn't fear for his own safety, but like this, it was easier to understand the crippling terror some people faced on a day-to-day basis, not even able to feel safe walking down a street, wondering if their loved ones would find themselves at the wrong place at the wrong time.

It was harder to imagine Batman willingly seek out this danger. 

When he used his senses, he saw a teen and three grown men ducking behind cars. There was an argument concerning coke.

Was this something Batman would show up for? Most of his appearances involved bigger busts. Heck, Batman could be at the other end of the city, _if_ he was even in Gotham tonight.

Well, it didn't matter if Batman didn't show up. He'd ignored enough cries for help as it was.

Clark was about to unbutton his shirt and fly off when the soft sound of shoes stepping across pavement had him pause.

Someone was approaching him from behind.

_Could it be –_

Clark's hopes were cut short with the telltale click of a gun. It smelled like one.

He bit his lip.

Of course, he'd get mugged. This was a mugging, right? God, not even one full night in Gotham, and he was already finding trouble.

When the cold hardness of a barrel dug tightly into his back, Clark rose his hands in the air ever so slowly so not to startle his attacker. The empty paper cup he'd been carrying dropped to the ground at his feet. Clark tried to relax his muscles, praying the metal wouldn't dent under the pressure.

"You know, crime isn't cool anymore," Clark said, frustrated, "You can be a better person. Drop the gun."

There was no response, and the weapon was shoved harder into skin. Clark listened for their heartbeat. It was calm and steady, not a trace of nervousness to be found. They'd done this before. It pained Clark that he was starting to recognize the signs of a killer.

"I'm guessing this isn't you're first rodeo," he tried again, hoping whoever it was didn't plan on snooping around, "My wallet's in the left pant pocket."

He _could_ just knock them out and disappear in the blink of an eye, but he didn't want to risk it. A tap on the back of the head wouldn't give a person memory loss. The only way to get someone to _maybe_ forget would be a hit hard enough to hospitalize them... or worse. Not happening. Clark Kent's identity depended on people assuming Superman didn't have a day job in the first place. Even if this mugger didn't catch his face, they'd clue in on a human with powers out-speeding a point-blank bullet.

That, and there were potential witnesses, Clark realized. They were waiting in hiding in the shadows. Judging by their fully-automatics, Clark could safely assume they weren't here to play nice.

Bit heavy on the weaponry for a quick mugging, though. Clark was getting a bad feeling.

Clark usually talked his way out of these situations – not that he got into them that often. Assault attempts weren't exactly part of his nightly routine. Or they were, but from a different side of the table.

The gun was pressed harder against his back, and there was a rough, "I'm not interested in paper."

Huh. That voice was disturbingly familiar.

He tilted his head, slowly so not to startle his assaulter, and caught a glimpse of someone he really hadn't expected to be on the other end of a revolver.

Clark inhaled, "Harvey Dent?"

It was coming back to him. Clark had interviewed Dent during an investigation only two years ago. The man was a stellar district attorney and an all-around pleasant guy. He was an exceptional speaker too, even able to keep up with Clark when he was describing past cases that no one really ought to remember. The man had charmed Clarks pants off—figuratively speaking.

Clark had heard about Maroni, the acid, and seeing the lasting scars hurt Clark in a way that didn't feel quite like pity, never pity, but it was close enough. And it ate away at him. The left side of Dent's face was permanently disfigured, the skin there mostly gone, and Clark truly couldn't imagine the pain he had gone through. He couldn't imagine his own skin looking like that. Clark couldn't put himself in Dent's shoes and think of the struggle it had been to stand up again. Because Clark had forgotten what pain felt like.

Dent was a reminder that Clark wasn't human, and selfishly, that hurt him too.

Once upon a time, Clark had wanted to be human – had desperately wished he could just be _normal –_ but he'd finally learned to accept himself. That didn't stop the occasional pangs of longing.

But none of this explained why Dent was pointing a gun at him. It also didn't explain the two masked men hidden in the shadows, armed and waiting.

Dent snapped, "It's Two-Face."

"Alright. Two-Face," Clark didn't argue, "If not money, what do you want from me?"

The last thing he needed right then was for him to fire. If the bullet ricocheted off him and hit Dent, Clark would never forgive himself. Best case scenario, his disguise would be a bust. Scratch that – best case scenario, Dent missed his shot, and Clark could fake a clumsy takedown-slash-runaway. Or even better, Dent didn't shoot at all, and Clark talked his way out of this.

"You're Clark Kent aren't you?"

He admitted, "Yes, I am."

"You're awfully calm for a man on the wrong side of a gun," Dent noted.

"I'm a journalist," Clark smiled wryly, "It comes with the job."

"I suppose it does," the attorney eyed him, one eye bulging. It would have been unnerving in different circumstances. The melted flesh should have been hard to look at, but Clark couldn't fathom feeling disgust over someone else's injury.

Dent was checking his watch and fiddling with a coin between his fingers. The following silence was deafening. A full minute came and went by, and Clark was still waiting for an opportunity to take the gun out of Dent's hands without being too obvious. To his dismay, Dent was aware of his surroundings, his experience in combat evident from his posture. He was like a spring, taught and ready.

The optimistic part of him hoped that Batman would show up. Realistically though, it was unlikely. Dent hadn't done anything – yet – to gain anyone's attention. They were tucked away in an obscure, quiet alleyway. And there had been that gunfight a good distance away. It was more plausible that Batman was handling someone there, if not meddling into bigger, more dangerous crimes. Wasn't the Joker running around freely now? He'd seen the headline on the Gazette prints earlier: _JOKER ESCAPES ARKHAM, AGAIN._

The title had seemed mildly passive-aggressive in its straightforwardness, but Clark wasn't one to judge. The Daily Planet had to deal with Lex, who was just as slippery.

The steady rumble of a car caught his ear. By the sounds of it, it was heading straight towards them. Clark wasn't facing that side of the street, so he couldn't see it, but from what he could hear, there was only one passenger.

Dent looked in that direction too, eventually able to hear the engine. It spurred him to action, as Dent got up close to his face, "Want to make a gamble?"

"Uh, not really, no."

"I wasn’t asking," Dent circled to face him and held up the coin, "Heads, I let you go. No tricks. Tails? You come with me."

The car pulled up, light blue and rusted in places that Clark didn't know could rust. It was clear that the driver was with Dent, seeing as he nor either of his armed hires reacted to it.

"That's –," Clark cut himself off. He wasn't going to argue with someone who was ready to murder. Both sides were heads. One side was scratched and burnt, but _still_. At least the odds were in his favour.

That was when he felt it – a subtle shift in the air. Anyone else wouldn't have heard it, and Clark may not have either if he wasn't searching for it. The sounds of a ghost were non-existent in their silence, but the sounds made by a man – a heartbeat, the rush of blood, the gurgle of intestines, the tickle of sparks from nerves, the gentle _whoosh_ of air in the lungs with each breath – couldn't be hidden from him, not when he's been surrounded by life for so long.

Clark's heart raced, expecting, waiting.

It was _him._

Dent flipped the coin, but it never landed.

A black mass dropped from the night sky, and the gun was ripped out of Dent's hands. Clark saw it in slow motion, saw the fluidity and precision that shouldn't belong to a body of that size, heard the single, powerful beat of a heart in that moment, felt the caress of thick fabric brush against his cheek. As if time sped up again, Clark was shoved to the side away from Dent, hard enough that a normal man would have fallen – so Clark did, a beat too late but no one seemed to notice.

Dent snarled, " _Batman_."

Sprawled on the ground, Clark's breath hitched.

Dent threw himself at the mass of darkness, aiming to land a few hits, but Batman caught his kick midair and sent Dent off balance with a boot. A kneecap popped, and Two-Face was pushed to the ground.

He lifted himself up on his elbows, unable to tear his eyes away.

Batman was a force of nature.

The thugs waiting in the alleyway scrambled out of their hiding spots, shouting profanities. Clark jolted, ready to stop what would be a senseless spray of bullets, identity be damned, but the shots were never fired. Batman was already on top of one of the men, fist smashing into his jaw. Clark heard the crack of a head hitting cement, the grind of bones shattering, and a soft, wet sound that guaranteed a concussion.

Clark made a move to stop him, because this was going overboard, this was everything he didn't want to see. But Batman was already on the other thug, who'd at one point been unarmed and kicked to the ground.

Someone screamed, and he had to run the sound through his head to make sure it wasn't his own. It couldn't be because his lips were stuck together like glue. Clark's throat had dried up. He was frozen to his spot, and an emotion he couldn't place dropped and settled deep within his gut. Hit after hit. There wouldn't be anything left of his face.

Superman could do nothing but watch, numbly, as Batman beat a man to near-death.

Dent, though, wasn't intimidated. He scrambled to his feet and made his way to Clark.

Sure, to him, Dent was being sluggish, but the man was in no means slow compared to the other experienced fighters Clark had come across – excluding the Bat, apparently. Dent was experienced though, and it showed.

 _"Clark Kent"_ lifted weights when he wasn't at work, but he'd never officially dabbled into any combat sport, so he couldn't fight back without risking suspicion. After this, Clark had to take some self-defense classes, and he'd make sure a few people knew about it, if only to have an explanation at hand. But for now, there wasn't much he could do.

He sighed internally and braced himself as Dent manhandled him into a hostage situation, a switchblade brushing against his throat.

Clark's neck was sensitive, and the metal lightly hovering over it had him tense for all the wrong reasons. It tickled –

Batman scowled.

Clark's eyes were immediately drawn to his mouth. He had a five o'clock shadow. Not relevant right then, obviously, but it was just something Clark noticed. He also had a cut on his lip. A small nick.

Batman bled.

The trace of hope Clark had of the man being Kryptonian had withered with it. And yet, Clark found Batman to be even more surreal. Was a human truly capable of – of _this_?

"You're interfering, Batman," Dent's breath ghosted unpleasantly over his ear, "I don't need a tool to trust chance."

There was a steady rise in Dent's heartbeat. Either he was about to do something reckless, or he was lying about something. Clark didn't know much about Harvey Dent, much less Two-Face, to know what that could be.

However, Batman seemed to understand, though he barely acknowledged the words. His frown imperceptibly deepened further. Just enough to remind Clark that the vigilante wasn't made of stone.

"You take your best shot, and I'll – ," Dent made a motion with the weapon, flipping it flat side forward and mimicking a slicing motion. It grazed his neck, and Clark flinched this time, " – take mine. I'll play fair. You can make the first move."

Clark had once thought the attorney was great at speaking. He had been right. Dent sounded calm when he was anything but. Clark could hear it, his quickening inhales and rapid pulse, and even the minute sounds of blood vessels constricting. This close, his nose could pick up the thick smell of adrenaline circulating through him.

Dent was scared.

It was getting worse the longer Batman didn't move – didn't _breathe_ , Clark noticed with interest. Batman's respiratory rate, heart rate, blood pressure, all of it. It was inexplicably low, half of what was the expected normal of an Olympic athlete. You would think he was dying. Or not human.

_Thunk-thump –_

Okay. He had to think.

Clark couldn't be sure of what Batman was planning, but he had to have faith that the man could get him out of this. Or at least cause enough of a distraction for Clark to. Because if he didn't, then he was in trouble. A bullet, he could pretend missed him. A knife though? There was no easy way to explain away a dented blade and unmarred skin.

_Thunk-thump –_

That said, Clark was a lot of things, but reliant wasn't one of them. If he could do something, he would.

An idea came to him.

Clark made a movement, pretending to struggle, just so he could catch Batman's attention.

Dent jostled him and snapped, "Stay still."

Batman's eyes found their way to his. Clark was unable to see through the mask and strangely even through the lenses. What was it made out of? Lead? At least he had his ears. With all of his attention zeroed in on the vigilante, he had heard the shift of Batman's eyes. The intensity of Batman's stare might have physically touched his skin.

Clark had no way of knowing if the man could see his lips from so far away, especially under the cover of night, but this was a supposed "demon of darkness". Attention drawn, he signaled to him anyways, clinging to hope. He mouthed a silent, _Do it. Now._

It was instantaneous. A black projectile was flying their way, and Two-Face had recoiled at Batman's movement. But Clark had delicately touched the arm and moved it away a few inches from his throat, ducking under, just as some sort of throwing star lodged into the man's wrist.

It was the shape of a bat, Clark smirked. The man really knew how to stick to a theme.

The humoured expression fell off his face though when he realized Dent was still moving. With a cry, he lunged at Clark, blade and all. It was a crisp enough attack to kill a man.

It never landed. The Bat's hand was gripping Dent's bleeding arm. Batman disarmed him as he broke several joints with a twist and a sickening series of cracks. Dent didn't seem to notice, clutching onto the armour to pull the vigilante in for an unforgiving hook with his working hand. But Batman tilted his head only slightly, and the strike didn't do much except graze over his shoulder.

Batman's returning counter was powerful. It couldn't even be called a fight. Having found an opening with Dent at close range, his fist struck Dent's jaw with an unkind uppercut, and Batman had the man doubling over with another heavy strike deep into his abdomen. Dent was on the ground in a blink of an eye, curled up in a fetal position, and struggling for breath.

All of this, from the moment he'd shaped the word _now_ with his mouth, happened in the span of five seconds.

Dent was skilled, able to keep up with such agile movements, but Batman... Batman was something else.

Clark swallowed, shaking.

Batman wasn't out of breath at all. His heart was strong, slow, steady – the same as when he'd first appeared. Maybe he wasn't human after-all. Humans couldn't move that fast, that silently. They couldn't hit with such force, not with the acute precision that he had. And, he reflected, not a single bullet had been fired. Humans couldn't predict who would pull the trigger first and be so effective. They wouldn't throw themselves into the middle of what would have been a gun fight with such sureness, with no fear of getting hurt, vitals stable and unfluctuating as though violence was a meditation.

Clark had seen each movement frame by frame, but he speculated what it would look like to someone who couldn't. Clark doubted the fight could be seen, even under daylight.

No wonder all of Gotham feared him.

At first, Clark had been taken aback. The cowl was a dark obstruction, pitch black, a silhouette of a demon in the night. No matter how intently Clark had looked, he couldn't see past it. But then Clark observed the rest of him, and it was clear that the Bat wore a suit, and it wasn't just for show. It was armour made out of Kevlar. No... it was more complex. Clark squinted. He'd never seen anything like it. The fibers were taught, but they stretched with forgiveness, clinging to Batman's form like glue.

There was a steady thrum coming from the equipment on his suit... and once Clark recognized it, his eyes widened.

_No._

Please, no.

But the sounds didn't change, no matter how much he begged.

Batman was behind all those cameras, the probes, the spying. It added up, yet the implications were awful. Batman monitoring him. Because this guy didn't only have technology beyond public accessibility, but he was intelligent in ways that ensured Clark was utterly _fucked_. Batman was a detective who did the impossible. Clark had gone through dozens of his legal cases, and his mind had been blown by the deduction, induction, and abduction skills needed to unravel the crimes.

He'd made a mistake coming to Gotham as Clark Kent. Under normal circumstances, Batman meeting Clark Kent was acceptable; he'd considered the consequences, but none were dangerous because in the end, Clark Kent was just another reporter investigating a vigilante. But Batman was combing through Superman's life too, and if Clark had known, he would never have shown up. He'd have avoided Gotham like a plague. Because now that he's introduced himself to the vigilante, he handed him the biggest clue in the universe on a silver platter.

Batman didn't know that he was Superman, not yet. But not for long. Clark could feel it in his bones. Nothing would escape Batman. It was only a matter of time.

Clark was panicking.

He had to find a way out of this. He needed a doppelgänger, needed an alibi, something _big_ that would get Batman to turn his head the other away.

Batman stepped closer to Harvey. His stance promised an execution. A finishing blow that would guarantee a knockout. Clark could hear Batman's muscles flexing, and he saw him reach for the fabric of Two-Face's yin and yang suit.

Before he could stop himself, Clark called, "Wait."

Batman did. He froze.

That was... that was surprising. Batman had actually listened. Clark's heart picked up without his consent when the man tilted his chin in question. Waiting.

He didn't waste his chance, speaking before Batman changed his mind, "That's – that's enough. He's already got two broken limbs. I can call the police."

There was a stretch of silence while Batman seemed to be considering him. His cape fluttered. Even Dent seemed to be holding his breath.

Miraculously in the end, he let the man go, fingers unclenching around the fabric. Batman rose to his feet and stepped back, but he remained standing in front of Clark, his large frame blocking his view of Dent.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

Clark didn't say thank you. He shouldn't have to say it.

"Give it back," noticing he'd been spared, Dent tried to stand, collapsed, "I said, give it back!"

Batman tossed something. Clark heard the soft _ding_ of the coin from before hitting the cement. It gleamed under the light as it rolled to Harvey Dent's head, who scrambled to snatch it back with a ferocity that startled him.

Clark's thoughts came to an abrupt, crashing halt when Batman finally spoke, "Go home, Two-Face."

A shiver crawled up his spine. Jesus.

The sound of it shot straight through him, right down to his toes, and it spread like water.

Batman's voice was a rich baritone, deep and thick in a way that caressed every last piece of Clark's being. It was a flawless match for the massive beast of a man which it belonged to. His words were cold and brisk, his tone controlling. There was no room for defiance. Not with him.

Even Dent fell prey to it.

"This isn't over," Dent spat before crawling over to the parked vehicle. Though the man had threatened to shoot him and maybe kidnap him, Clark didn't think he deserved those injuries.

The ex-lawyer ripped opened the driver's seat door, but then he paused, not making a move. Dent's expression turned frigid. He reached into car and yanked out an unconscious body – another one of Batman's victims? How or when, Clark couldn't guess. Dent tossed the driver onto the sidewalk – Clark flinched – before sitting in the seat himself and slamming on the gas.

Clark didn't understand why Batman was just letting the man go free. Though Dent didn't deserve to be senselessly attacked, he should still face prosecution. He had been armed, attempted a kidnapping, and assaulted him. If Batman hadn't shown up, and if Clark wasn't Clark, Dent would have put someone else in danger. Clark didn't want him on the streets any more than Batman did – or at least, Clark had assumed he did.

But Dent had drove off, disappearing into the city.

With Dent gone and everyone else knocked out cold, Clark stood up, slowly.

Batman loomed. Neither said a word.

Clark had never seen a living creature stand so still.

He looked at him – _really_ looked at him. Batman was a formidable figure, larger than the average larger man, appearance grotesque in a way that could be monstrous. He was bulky, and again, Clark was questioning how someone so massive could move like silk.

Flecks of blood had splattered over his chest, his chin, near his lip. Not all of it was fresh.

Safe to say, Clark was left utterly speechless.

Batman was as alluring as he was dangerous. He shouldn't be impressed, but he was. He wasn't only impressed, Clark admitted with chagrin, he was feeling _attraction._

There was a special place in hell for people like Clark.

The black of a cape bellowed in the wind, the ends sinking into the darkness like ink. He was nothing but a silhouette, a shadow of black against the stars. Specs of white glared back at him, still somehow difficult to see through. It was a foggy glimpse at best.

Clark supposed he could try harder to enhance his vision, but he didn't really want to; the man wore a mask for a reason. Until he understood his motives, he would respect his boundaries.

Yet, despite the lenses hiding them, there was no doubt the man's eyes were ablaze. Clark's fingertips grew numb in his thrill. He could feel their fire through the barriers of his suit. The Bat was more stone than man, but it was impossible to deny there was a person under it all. Someone with feelings, values, and fears. But, Clark thought, if he didn't shy away from an onslaught of bullets, did he feel fear?

He wasn't like Clark. He wasn't bulletproof. He bled. There was a shallow cut on his chin. Batman _should_ be scared of death, but he wasn't.

It was this lack of fear, so pure in its nature, free from arrogance and bravado, that had him on edge. Who exactly was this man?

He was suddenly grabbed by the neck – he saw the motion, the gloved fingers reaching for his skin, felt the pressure against his arteries – and Batman squeezed.

Clark sucked in a breath.

But – he'd thought – this didn't make sense. Batman didn't attack civilians.

_Not on paper._

Clark pretended to suffocate, pretended that he couldn't breathe. Weakly, he grabbed onto the gauntlet, avoiding the sharp edges out of principle. It occurred to him that his feet were no longer touching the ground. Now on the receiving end of Batman's fist, it was a lot simpler to understand why criminals found him terrifying. Batman did seem like a creature of nightmares. Clark was invulnerable, and yet he was the one shaking. Not because he was scared. No, oh god, this was affecting him in a way that –

"You shouldn't be here, _Kent_ ," he growled.

Clark's mouth dried.

Oh.

 _Oh_ , fuck.

Batman already knew his name. Clark was an idiot. This was the biggest blunder he could possibly make, and to think he was being smart about it. Batman would keep digging. He'd dig and dig until he found out about the other guy. Batman was already knees-deep into Superman; it wouldn't be longer before he connected the dots. Dammit. _Dammit._

"H-how – "

Batman squeezed – Rao, did he have a strong grip – and Clark wondered if he noticed that his fingers could only sink so deep.

"Plea – please – " he had to get him to let go. He'd notice, he'd know, if he already didn't, "Please."

Arm taught and flexing, Batman looked like he wanted to throw him – Clark bet he could, and if that wasn't food for thought – but the man didn't. With a snarl, Batman loosened his grip, and Clark landed on his feet. He feigned collapsing onto the ground, onto his knees, because he'd been in a chokehold for long enough to severely asphyxiate a human.

Batman crouched low beside him, and Clark inhaled deeply. Leather, sweat, the sharpness of metal and blood, and a scent underneath it all that he couldn't place. A gloved hand brushed against his chest, slipping underneath his jacket—too close to the blue and red.

Clark's heart leapt to his throat.

Without warning, he grabbed onto Batman's wrist, who immediately stilled. Clark clutched tight, not enough to break any armour or give him away, but enough to alarm them both. Clark frantically tried to calm himself. To his relief, Batman's grip was on his press pass and not on his shirt, so he hastily let Batman go, pushing at his arm. Away.

The lanyard was clipped around his neck but had been hidden from view. There was no way Batman could have read his name on it. Right? Or. Or maybe he heard Dent say his name earlier? Oh man, either way, what difference did it make. Clark was in too deep now.

"Hm," Batman growled lowly, pulling onto the lanyard. Clark followed it without meaning to. It felt like he was being beckoned by the Devil, "What did Two-Face want with you?"

"I – I don't know," Clark was supposed to be the one asking questions. He remembered to stammer, "Why did you not stop let – why did you let him go? You – I could have called the police."

"That's not your concern."

What? Harvey just tried to kidnap him! It most certainly was his concern. Clark's eyes flashed, but he was supposed to be cowering under Batman's wrath, so he didn't argue. He was still a journalist though, "Why was he – I thought Harvey Dent was – "

Clark was cut off, "Why are you here?"

"There were gunshots. I heard gunshots, and I," he licked his lips, "I wanted to help."

"Try again."

"That's the truth – "

Batman pulled him in closer, "Why are you in _Gotham_?"

With each of those careful breaths, the gentle brush of air touched his face. It was overwhelming. Clark never had this much trouble blocking out stimulation, but right then he could feel everything and anything, and it all led back to Batman. Clark could _taste_ the scents he carried on his tongue. He could see the heat emitting from his body and hear the electric pulses of his nerves. And they weren't even touching.

When Clark didn't answer, Batman did, saying lowly, "You're here for Batman."

"What if I am?" _Will you hurt me? Kill me? How will you silence me?_

Batman didn't fall for the bait, "I'm not your next headline. Get your story elsewhere."

He was one to talk. All Clark did was read a few articles and case transcripts. Batman had been binging on Superman like it was the first few seasons of Game of Thrones.

Batman was the one trailing Superman, and Clark wanted to know _why_.

And how did Batman know Clark was after him of all things? He'd only began his investigation this morning. Yeah, he'd been asking around, but Gotham was huge. The odds of Batman hearing about him from a stranger was slim to none. Clark wanted to ask, but he doubted he'd get an answer.

Instead, he asked his most burning question, "Why do you do this? Why do you hurt them?"

Batman stared at him, and Clark clenched his fists, fingers digging into the cement. Something about Batman rubbed him the wrong way. Clark wanted to smack him, hit him with just enough strength to give him a taste of his own medicine. But then how would Clark be any different from him? Violence wasn't effective. It made people want to retaliate. Aggression only fostered more, a deeper, spiteful aggression. Someone had to show these people how to be kind, to act as a role model, that kindness made you and everyone else do good. Clark would be the mature one here. He wouldn't fight Batman, even if he was tempted to.

Clark hadn't been expecting an answer after such a long stretch of silence, but Batman spoke suddenly, "Because fear changes you."

With that elusive response, Batman yanked at his lanyard, and the buckle snapped off the back of Clark's neck. He made sure to flinch, watching in dismay as the man pocketed his card in one of the compartments in his belt. Money didn’t grow on trees, and that was a thirty-dollar replacement.

 _Fear_.

This had to do with fear.

There was irony in there, that a man who inflicted fear didn't feel it himself. Or maybe he did, once upon a time. Maybe fear changed _him._

Maybe, like Clark, he was sick and tired of all the hate people had for each other. Humans were given the most precious things of all, life, consciousness, and the capacity to _love_. But some didn't care for it, and innocent people had to suffer the consequences. And no matter what Clark did, no matter how many walls Superman could punch through, he wouldn't ever be able to put an end to humanity's darkness. It was something that was a part of them and would always be. Clark was learning to accept it – it didn't mean he had to like it.

Batman stood to his full height. His cape brushed against Clark's nose as he did. The touch broke Clark from his thoughts, which were beginning to spiral out of control.

"This is the tip of the iceberg, Kent. Do yourself a favour and go the other way."

As if that was supposed to discourage him. Clark clenched his jaw, watching Batman as made his way to the gunfight he'd heard earlier. Clark could follow him, chase him, but it would give him away. For all intents and purposes, Batman had disappeared into the shadows.

He pulled off his glasses and ran a hand over his face.

Batman saved him, then strangled him. He beat up Dent but let him go when Clark had asked. Batman broke the law to enforce the law. His body was vulnerable, but he moved like it wasn't.

There was so much _grey._ There was nothing black or white about him, nothing clear-cut. Batman was full of contradictions.

For a man who pretended to be a monster, he was awfully human.

Clark had came here looking for answers, but it seemed his answer was that there were none. Batman was neither righteous nor wrongful. Clark didn't know what to do from here. Stopping Batman would result in an influx of crime, and yet letting him continue would endorse the violence. Either way, people would get hurt.

Clark sighed. He slipped on his frames and rose to his feet.

He had half the mind to interrupt Batman as Superman, but the timing might be too suspicious. He'd wait a few days. Now that he knew what Batman sounded like – discovered he was real – it would be easier to find him.

Clark thoroughly checked his body for any cameras or tracers. Finding none, he flew out of Gotham. Superman made several stops along the way. Clark couldn't exactly go back to his apartment. Technically his train was supposed to depart at sunrise, and now that he knew who was trailing him, he wasn't going to risk it. Clark would have to take the train.

There was a shooting in Egypt, a bank heist in Washington, and a series of DUI's that had Clark beyond upset. He was disappointed. None of these problems could be blamed on mother nature. Knowing that his night had been filled with people making bad decisions had only soured his mood further.

Clark just wanted to go home.

An hour later, just as the sun's crown peeked over the horizon, Clark dragged himself to Gotham's primary station. Someone shoved into him in line, and he had to dodge so they wouldn't hurt themselves. Clark bit his lip.

He _hated_ public transportation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :0


	4. Silver

The sky was deceptively clear, a mocking shade of blue.

Sweating and heart thundering, Bruce shrugged off his suit. There was little a human could do in what neared a battle between gods, but he'd be damned if he didn't try. Legs and arms quivering, he heaved up rubble because he had to. Running wasn't an option. He freed the ones who were trapped, but it wasn't enough. Several expressed their gratitude, the rest numb in the tongue. Most ran without a second glance. None recognized him. No one cared about who was rescuing them – that egotistic Bruce Wayne wasn't saving his own life first. To them, to him, all that mattered was that they were alive.

It was chaos. People screamed around him, running and running. The soles of his feet had grown tender from the ground's vibrations, and he had to crouch to stay steady. He choked on debris even with his face shoved deep into his elbow. It burned, his eyes watered, but he couldn't stop staring.

Bruce had seen him in the news, the footage, but it was nothing to witnessing the real thing.

Superman was hit – where, how, Bruce's senses couldn't catch nor keep up – and sent spiraling into the ground a mile away. The Earth tremored. Bruce had to catch himself before he fell to his knees from the aftershock. The sound reached his ears after seconds. Supersonic. They were moving faster than the speed of sound.

Blue and red and black tumbled in the sky like they were in a ring. But there was no ring. There was no boundary for them, for nothing could contain them.

Zod, it called itself, was Bruce's every fear. Superman – without his heart.

Superman's consciousness gave him conscience, yet Bruce had been too much of a coward to be grateful for it. Rather than being uprooted by an instrument of war, Earth was loved by it. Superman loved Earth.

Bruce ground his teeth. Damn him. Damn them both.

He thought he'd understood, but this changed everything.

From somewhere far, far away, they had arrived here with enough power to pillage and conquer as they pleased. Zod had proposed Superman a lavish offer, the planet and its people, and most importantly, a chance to revive the Kryptonian race.

Yet, Superman refused.

A guest to Earth, and it fought to protect it like it was its own home.

This changed _everything_.

The booms and sounds of rips in the air had long-since stopped, yet the sky continued to quake. There was a crack, and Bruce's heart dropped as another skyscraper began to collapse. He was already sprinting towards it. He'd never run faster, but fuck, it was a snail's crawl in comparison. There wasn't room for uncertainty nor hesitation. Because there was a small frame, a child, frozen in fear underneath the falling building. Of course, there was.

He saw the shadow of solid walls coming down in his peripherals, but he didn't give the source a glance because there was no time.

All Bruce could do was run. Forward. More.

"Move!" Bruce shouted, "Move, move!"

He grabbed him, shoved him, made him run too.

Bruce leapt, though it wouldn't matter how fast or hard he pushed; the chunk of wall would snag his legs.

The crushing weight was immediate. His face hit cement hard. The world span, but Bruce didn't feel the pain, not the wretched agony he should be in. Hands bleeding, he tried to lift himself off the ground – couldn't.

"Are you alright?"

His breath hitched.

Bruce twisted around and came face to face with it – him. He was close enough for Bruce to touch. It would only take a lift of his arm, and he would be skimming his hand across marble skin, brushing his fingers across lashes that could cut into his flesh. But that was a thigh slotted against his calf and a hand next to his own, pressed against the ground – not a cut or bruise on those hands despite it all. Bruce was caged.

They weren't supposed to meet. Not like this. His heart raced, pulse bounding and frantic at his chest, not unlike a frightened bird, grounded and waiting for the inevitable.

The chunk of wall was on Superman's back – it could have easily been on Bruce – and bricks fell around them like rain. He'd have been dead right now. That, or he'd be a man without legs. Either outcome and it would have been an end to his mission.

And to make this situation worse, Bruce couldn't take his eyes off him.

The footage didn't do him justice.

He was unreal. Impossible.

Like the rest of him, those blue, blue eyes were impenetrable. Steel. It didn't matter how hard he or anyone tried; one way or another, Kal-El would always be out of reach.

Bruce shoved him anyways – moving a mountain would have been easier – and ignored his frisson when his hand met his chest with a smack, "Get off."

Superman obeyed – why, _why_ – lifting himself up, but only after glancing above them to make sure nothing else was coming. The slab slid off his back like water, as though he didn't even notice it was there.

"You need to get somewhere safe. These buildings aren't stable," Superman's voice was silvery, clear and pleasant, and there was a charm to it that might make people who weren't Bruce want to listen.

Bruce pushed himself to his feet. He glared over the broad shoulder, Batman lacing his tone, "There are more trapped."

"I'll find them. Get to safety," Superman turned on his heel, cape fluttering. Unlike everything surrounding them, it was pristine. He was pristine.

If Superman was here, working on salvaging the aftermath, then the fight had to be over. Zod lost. Was he killed?

He said suddenly, "Wait."

Superman did, "What's wrong?"

"Is it over?" he had to be sure.

"The battle," Superman clarified, "Is over, Mr. Wayne."

Wayne.

_Wayne._

Superman knew who he was.

Bruce had to stay in character, did his best to play this off, tried to act nonchalant despite knowing it was too late, "Thanks, Superman. You saved my life. A lot of lives today."

"No, I – I'm sorry," Superman's statue-worthy posture collapsed, eyes so expressive, so human, and then he was gone.

Bruce grimaced. He could taste the failure, the regret, and self-pity on his tongue like it was his own. The guilt would eat away at the boy scout. In a way, this would be the test, his first real one. Could Superman fall and learn to rise again?

There would be backlash. Superman was meant to be a beacon of hope. And as Bruce surveyed the wreckage, estimated the lives lost, he didn't think the world would see him in the same light any longer. In a way, Bruce was lucky; he'd been skeptical since the beginning. He'd seen this coming, so there was no hope to be crushed.

Bruce was right; Superman was too powerful of a creature to have on Earth. All this destruction was him trying to _prevent_ it from happening. What if Superman intentionally sought out Earth's demise?

But if there were more like Zod out there, Earth stood no chance without help.

And Superman inspired good behaviour. People wanted to be him—sometimes Bruce did as well. When he was picking out shrapnel between his ribs or looking at the corpse of a victim because he'd been too late, the longing to hold infinite power seemed to drown him.

Batman had to be feared. He was a punisher, a warning for wrongdoing. But his method wasn't effective in preventing wrong. Batman dealt with the consequences, but it was Superman who could keep the shadows at bay. Ever since his arrival, people stopped to think about their actions. _What would Superman say? What would Superman do?_

Superman had to be a figure of good to look up to. He inspired hope. He motivated people to do good, want to be good. The world _needed_ Superman.

" _I'm_ sorry," Bruce said into the wind.

Sorry this had to happen, sorry about what he needed to do.

Superman was important to society. But he wasn't stupid enough to disregard a contingency plan. Bruce surveyed his surroundings, frowning.

The world might need him, and Superman might have no ill intentions, but that didn't make his presence here on Earth any less dangerous. Bruce would find a way to stop Kal even if it killed him. Even if he had to kill him.

Zod had cleared a few things up.

Bruce would rather die a villain than see Superman become one. Because this couldn't happen again. Bruce would make sure the world never saw Superman turn into anything else. For his symbol to work, to the public, Superman had to be flawless. The manifestation of moral excellence. Superman had to be perfect, otherwise the world would tear him apart.

Bruce Wayne would try and shape the media, but to do that, he'd have to be quick. Lucky for him, he had connections. Bruce glanced around. _If_ they were still alive.

* * *

_Click-click._

_Click._

_Click-click._

The words taunted him. 'Metropolis was rebuilding quickly, thanks to several handsome donations and Superman's assistance with labour.' An hour in, and that was all he managed to type out. He couldn't do it. This was unethical; he had no right. He shouldn't be writing this article. He shouldn't be wearing the symbol. Clark didn't deserve their trust. Maybe... maybe Superman didn't belong on Earth.

_Click-click-click._

Rao, he was going to be sick.

Clark could still hear their screams.

The sounds, sight, and feel of a neck snapping –

"Kent! My office!"

Clark stopped clicking his pen.

Lois was staring at him, but he ignored her when he rose to his feet. He couldn't bring himself to look at anybody. She didn't stop him – the Planet was the busiest its been since he donned the cape.

The door snapped shut behind him, and he struggled to speak, "You wished to see me?"

"Phone," Perry handed him the outdated block of plastic, "For you."

Clark grabbed the phone just as Perry hit the speaker button. He didn't understand why Perry hadn't given them his extension or transferred him over, where he could have answered it at his desk, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

He couldn't bring himself to speak enthusiastically, even with Perry giving him the eagle-eye, "This is Clark Kent, Daily Planet."

 _"Hi, Clark,"_ Clark's breath hitched. No way. He'd never forget that voice, delicate and sweet like honey. _"It's Bruce Wayne. I hope it's not a bad time."_

"Not at all, Mr. Wayne."

_"You're in cahoots with Superman, right?"_

"Um," he was about to deny it – and what did that even mean – but Perry was nodding enthusiastically and hissing _yes_ , so Clark answered, "...Yes."

_"I'm jealous! Superman's the one thing in the world I can't buy, huh? Anyways, he saved my life yesterday, and I wanted to express my gratitude."_

No. No. Anything but this.

Superman had destroyed everything; he didn't want it brushed off because he saved a few people from his own devastation. It was wrong. Clark Kent couldn't be biased; his job was to tell the truth. And saying that Superman deserved gratitude? That couldn't be farther from it.

"Oh, that's..." Clark felt Perry's eyes burn through his skull, "That's great."

_"I promised you an interview. And this is my last day in Metropolis. May as well hit two birds with one stone, ha ha."_

Clark closed his eyes. Bruce Wayne was the last person he wanted to see right now, but Perry would kill him if he said no. He clenched his jaw, "I'd love to."

_"Great! I'll have my driver pick you up in... say, twenty minutes?"_

Clark bit his lip, "Okay. Thank you, Mr. Wayne."

_"Call me Bruce. See you soon!"_

"Can you believe it?" Perry smiled for the first time since the destruction, "We're getting first dibs on Wayne. Don't know how you did it – and I don't wanna know, now that I think about it – but uh, good work, Kent!"

~

Clark didn't know what to make of the sleek black vehicle that pulled up at the Daily Planet entrance. He didn't know much about cars, but he'd bet his money this one was custom.

His chauffeur was an elderly gentleman. They were heading in the general direction of Metropolis' Wayne Tower, so Clark figured it was safe to assume that was their destination. Clark had tried to make conversation, but the driver didn't utter a word. Though after five minutes, Clark caught the man glancing at him out of the rear-view mirror. He must have been just as confused as Clark as to why Bruce Wayne was going this out of his way to speak to a reporter.

Clark was dropped off in front of sparkling glass doors and escorted out. The gentleman opened the door for him just as Clark was about to, and he nearly stumbled out. Blushing and feeling really out of place, Clark thanked him and stepped out.

There were a few areas blocked off for construction, but overall, the building was miraculously still standing. Wayne Tower was one of the few buildings in downtown Metropolis that withstood yesterday's fight. Thank god he'd managed to protect the hospitals.

Clark clenched his fist and stepped inside.

* * *

Bruce Wayne was unreasonably photogenic, a concept proven by Jimmy's shots, but Clark had always known this. He hadn't given Wayne a second thought, though. Not since the gala. Not since –

Clark exhaled. Not since he'd seen him running in the opposite direction of the masses, bleeding and aching, trying to get to anyone he could. Saving people from Clark, because of Clark.

Humans were ultimately good, and Wayne reminded him of that. Seeing that – seeing who Wayne was underneath all that splendor – it was why Clark fought. Wayne was ready to sacrifice his life for a stranger, and no number of risqué tabloids could take that away from him. There was something more to Wayne than all this superficial glamour. Clark was ashamed that he'd fallen for the gossip. He hadn't spared Wayne a second glance because he thought the billionaire was some hollow, shallow playboy.

Clark wanted to apologize to him, for ever doubting him, for nearly killing him, for destroying his home and getting so many people hurt and worse. But Clark Kent didn't know that happened, so he'd do it as Superman. He would, when he got a chance; he owed it to him.

Earth was his home, but it was borrowed. These people didn't deserve the destruction he brought here.

So, when he stepped into Wayne's office, and his eyes fell on the sharp silhouette of the man gazing out into the city, Clark saw him as if for the first time. Bruce Wayne stole Clark's breath straight from his lungs, and he would likely suffocate because he couldn't look away. There were bags under his eyes that weren't there before, and his skin was pale – paler than usual – but Clark had to swallow. Wayne looked good. He was cleanly shaven today, and his jet back hair wasn't slicked back with product like at the gala, only brushed away from his face. Clark's gaze dropped to Wayne's battered hands, nicked with scrapes from yesterday.

Clark grimaced and willed the guilt away. He had knocked, but the man hadn't noticed him yet. He seemed to be deep in thought, staring out into Metropolis.

He cleared his throat, "Mr. Wayne?"

Wayne visibly startled – oddly enough, his heart rate didn't spike – and turned his head. He flashed him a billion-dollar smile once he recognized who was standing at the doorway, "Clint! Right on time. Come in, come in. And shut the door behind you, if you will. It's chaos out there."

Clark did, but the door did nothing to dampen the frantic noises in the other offices, not out there and not on the floors down below. They were panicking. He heard people whisper from down the street and cities he couldn't name – _It's because of Superman. He doesn't belong here. What if this happens again?_ The sobbing of mothers mourning over their children and dogs whimpering because where did their papa go? Clark could hear it all. And he didn't blame them for it because they were right.

Zod tried to eradicate the human race because of Clark. If Clark hadn't been on Earth, Zod would have chased him down somewhere else. He did what he could to stop him. He may have won, but the damage was done. People got hurt, people died, and homes, businesses, and essential services were destroyed.

And Wayne wanted to _thank him._

Wayne made his way to the set of seats tucked away in the corner near the windows. To his dismay, Wayne took the seat he was eyeing, the one facing the doorway. Now Clark was stuck sitting across from him with a perfect view of a ruined Metropolis. He sat down.

Great. Just great.

He remembered what Wayne had said, "Actually, it's Clark. Not Clint."

Wayne blinked owlishly a few times. Then his gaze dropped to Clark's – new– press pass. It lingered there as he read, " _Clark Kent_. Right, my apologies."

"Let's start," Clark suggested. He wanted this over and done with, "May I record this interview?"

"Of course," Wayne smiled breezily, eyes glassy and not quite there. The stare left his skin prickling. It was so empty.

He already had his pen and notepad out, so he pulled out his phone and hit record, "Alright, it's on."

"Thanks for doing this so last minute, by the way. I'm sure the Planet's got their hands full right now," Wayne got comfortable in his seat, spreading out and crossing his legs, ankle to knee.

Clark got an eyeful of his dress shoes: black and so polished, Clark was sure he would see his teeth reflecting off them if he smiled. Probably genuine Italian leather.

He glanced down at his own worn-down slip-ons.

There wasn't a hint of a brand name anywhere on Wayne, but this wasn't news to Clark. The "subtlety" was something he'd noticed about the filthy rich long ago. They didn't like to show off their money, not in what they wore. Because at the end of the day, a five-hundred dollar Louis Vuitton shirt was half a penny in their pockets.

He realized he was stalling and hadn't said anything for long enough to be awkward. Clark cleared his throat.

"We can start off with yesterday's disaster," rip it off like a band aid, "You mentioned Superman rescued you. Run through the event with me?"

"Sure. I was here in Metropolis for a conference with Lexie. Sorry, Lex Luthor from LexCorp—wait, you know him. Anyways, I was just leaving when I saw them!" Wayne exclaimed, looking not unlike a child in his excitement. Oddly, again, the billionaire's heart rate didn't spike, but Clark was more preoccupied by his words, "Did you see it? The fight was amazing. Bam, boom! It was like we were in a sci-fi flick. Never thought I'd see the day."

Clark stopped writing.

There was a discrepancy, from who he'd seen buried under stone and the man in front of him. It was the Wayne from the tabloids. Kent ignored the distaste in his mouth at it. So what, if some personalities weren't his cup of tea? That didn't mean those people weren't good people. That was why he was here, wasn't it? Because Wayne was _good_. Wayne cared about others enough to put his life on the line. He knew it. He saw it. If Wayne was a bit too rambunctious for his tastes, that didn't mean that fundamentally he was a bad person. Just... hard to listen to.

Clark couldn't stop his frown though, chiding, "People lost their lives."

A silence settled over them. Long enough to be uncomfortable.

Wayne had lowered his hands, resting them over his abdomen, but still, he didn't say anything. Those ice blue eyes were as silver as a mirror. Clark couldn't see through.

A chill crawled up his spine.

It was a glimpse of the Bruce Wayne he'd seen under the ruins, hands bleeding and gaze determined.

It was the man in those interviews following his parents' deaths.

Clark hadn't watched those videos for long during his research on Wayne. It felt uncannily like a breach of privacy, like he was seeing something he shouldn't. Sure, it was years ago, but the pain of losing someone you loved never truly numbed. It was only forgotten as one was distracted. All it took was one reminder, and then it would be like it happened all over again. And as time continued on, the feelings of ache and loss only got worse. Because what if. What if they were here right now? What would they be doing? What if you could have done something different? What if you had protected them?

A memory of holding Pa's cold hand flashed through his head, and Clark was suddenly desperate to see his Ma. Tears welled up in his eyes, but now was really not the time.

Clark swallowed down that awful choking feeling he got when he wanted to cry but couldn't.

This was all too much.

"I know," Wayne suddenly said, voice impossibly light. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, "And that's why I wanted to speak with you. Not the Gotham Gazette. Not Lane. You."

Clark's brows furrowed, "I don't understand."

"I won't lie. You left an impression on me when you ditched me at the gala. People don't usually walk out on me," he said too arrogantly, then smirked, " _And_ you've got a nice face. Every consider modelling?"

"Not really," he said mildly, trying and failing to keep the annoyance out of his tone. He'd seen Wayne do this routine with dozens of others, dozens more times. Clark was wiser, and he wouldn't fall for it.

"A shame," Wayne shrugged, "Point is, I got curious and read some of your articles. They were pretty good, by the way."

Clark faked a stutter, "Um, thanks. Thank you."

Wayne gestured to the windows behind him, "Your priority is the people. I can respect that."

"It has to be," Clark stated. If he wasn't ultimately being a journalist to protect the people, then he wasn't doing it for the right reasons.

"See? This is what I mean! I _know_ you'll get this right," Wayne was smiling that dazzling smile of his, the one that rubbed Clark the wrong way, "So, off the record, I have a favour to ask."

"Shoot."

Wayne then said, "I don't want to be the focus of this article. This is mostly about Superman."

"...Sure, I can do that," Clark wanted to tear out his own hair, "May I ask why?"

"Because he's a hero. Quote me on that."

 _Crack_.

Blue ink splattered.

Clark exhaled carefully through his nose, staring impassively at the mess. Mind churning and not there, he was mumbling out an apology he didn't hear, "Oh gosh. Sorry, one sec."

Wayne had his family cruelly ripped away from him, and Superman just did that to thousands more people. Wayne should be angry right now. He shouldn't be _thanking_ Superman. He should be telling Clark to write a degrading article, advocating for the people and for Superman to get the heck off Earth.

Clark shouldn't have agreed to this.

He should have just told Perry and Wayne to find someone else.

Thankfully, the ink only got on the paper. If it got on his hands, he'd have a hard time explaining why it didn't stain. On autopilot – this happened a lot – Clark set the ruined notebook and pen aside to reach for his spares.

Wayne didn't spare the mess a glance and chuckled, "Here, take mine."

Clark scrutinized the gleaming black and gold pen. It was engraved. Jeez, it probably cost more than his rent. If he accidently broke _this_...

"Don't worry," Wayne said, as if reading his mind, "I have dozens more."

Right.

Billionaire.

"Thanks. I promise I'll return it in one piece," he said sheepishly, holding it like it was glass. A tiny 'B.W.' marked the nib. Great. It was a custom.

"No biggie," Wayne ran his fingers through his hair, and Clark looked somewhere else.

He set his eyes on the pen and uncapped it. Of course, it was a fountain pen. Why wouldn't it be? He asked, "I'll need some background info, if that's okay. For the record, how did Superman rescue you?"

"I was caught under one of the damaged towers. There was a _huge_ scrap of wall falling from the sky, right over my head. He came out of no where and shielded me with his body," Wayne sighed suddenly, "God, I finally get it."

Wayne... Wayne didn't mention him trying to rescue anyone. Odd. Why didn't he want people to know? It seemed like something anyone would brag about, article about Superman or not.

But that had been Clark's mistake last time. He'd made assumptions before, and here he was doing it again. Wayne _did_ risk his life out of the goodness of his heart. It was certainly possible he saw no reason to brag. Clark didn't like to either, but Ma insisted. She said that if people didn't see him do good, they wouldn't trust him. She was right in a way, but Clark didn't think helping people should be newsworthy. Kindness should be normal.

"What do you finally get, Mr. Wayne?" Clark carefully scratched into his new notepad. The ink glided across the paper like a dream.

"Bruce is fine," Wayne said, then smirked, "Ever have Superman's arms wrapped around you?"

He tried not to react, "No."

"Then never mind. You wouldn't understand," Wayne's expression turned wistful for a moment before he shook his head, "Point is, he saved my life. He saved the entire fucking planet. People shouldn't blame Superman for Zod."

Clark stopped writing, "Why do you think Superman is not to blame?"

"Because Zod was pure evil, and Superman was clearly on our side."

"Zod announced that he followed Superman to Earth. Some would argue that he's the reason why we were in danger in the first place," Clark bit his tongue. He was getting too heated, "What are your thoughts on this?"

"They're all idiots. Look. If beings like Superman and Zod exist, who's to say there aren't more out there? Superman found his way here. Zod did too. And something else won't? Who's to say they won't want to wipe out mankind or – or eat us all in some morbid feast? Hell, that's exactly what just happened," Wayne paused to breathe, "We got lucky. Superman's a good guy! He doesn't want to rule the world or eat every last one of us. And he's powerful! He's our knight in shining armour. Imagine all this happened without Superman. Earth would be defenseless! We need him. What about all the good he's done? Everyone's so quick to forget he's been helping us from day one. One bad day isn't be all end all."

Clark had a lot to say to that, but this was an interview and not an argument, so he tried to stay professional, "Fair enough. However, Earth isn't an appropriate battleground. The collateral damage caused by the fight was tremendous. Do you believe the risk of this devastation happening again is worth it?"

Wayne said breezily, "Zod offered Superman a chance to rule the world, yet he refused. Superman killed off the last of his people for _us_. We're like ants to him, but he still fought to protect us. He didn't have to, but he did it because he cares, and I'll stand by him. Here's a quote: people should be more goddamn grateful."

Clark swallowed.

That was... oddly thoughtful.

But Wayne hadn't really answered his question. Was Superman's presence here worth the risk of danger? Maybe. Were, comparatively, a few lives lost worth saving millions more? Clark would have said no, and that he'd find another way. But sometimes there wasn't another way. Sometimes you had to make the hardest decision of your life.

"Can we go off the record again," Wayne said. It wasn't a question.

His tone had Clark pause. He let out a cautious, "Okay."

Wayne pointed out, blunt, "You're angry at him."

"I am," he admitted. He hadn't hesitated.

"And I assume you've met him," Wayne's tone was bland again.

"I have."

Wayne said thoughtfully, "What will happen when the world stops trusting him?"

Clark narrowed his eyes. He already knew the answer, could hear it next door, "They'll cast him out."

"Will he continue to fight for us?" Wayne was the one asking questions now, but Clark didn't stop him.

"I know it," and he meant it.

"Then fight for him too."

At his silence, Wayne continued, "Even if he saved one person, made one person's day better, he made a difference. That's what has to count."

It was like the weight of the world was lifted off his shoulders by just an inch – an inch that made all the difference. Someone believed in him. That was enough. Clark smiled for the first time all day, "Thanks. You're right."

Wayne blinked a few times before he replied, "Just trying to stay positive."

Clark hadn't ever heard Wayne say anything nearly this meaningful in his entire life. But an entire conversation?

He hadn't realized he needed this, to have his thoughts unraveled and picked apart. And the icing on the cake? Wayne didn't even realize what he was doing. And he didn't know that it wasn't just Clark Kent he was speaking to, but Superman too. Bruce Wayne was helping him figure this out without even realizing it. 

"You know, I heard Gotham has its own hero," Clark subtly changed the topic.

He winced.

Yeah.

Subtle.

"We do?" Wayne's brows shot up.

"I believe they call him Batman. What's he like?"

Wayne's brows shot up in realization before they furrowed, "You think he's a hero?"

"I don't have enough information to make an... informed opinion. Do you think he's not?"

"Beats me," Wayne shrugged, "I think there are better ways to stop crime."

Clark remembered his research, "You invest in a lot of programs which promote social integration and reduce recidivism. Do you propose this is a more effective alternative to Batman's methods?"

The look of Wayne's face was priceless, "Redic – recidivism? What's that?"

Clark stared at him. He patiently explained, "Re-offending, Mr. Wayne."

"Ooh. Then yeah, sure," he didn't sound like he understood – or more accurately, cared.

Okay, never mind on that topic. Looks like whatever moment they had was gone. _Bruce Wayne_ was back. Clark's breathed in deeply, counted to three, and exhaled, "You mentioned Superman saved you. What about Batman? Have you ever met him?"

"Met him? Nope," Mr. Wayne popped the 'p', "Don't think I'd want to."

"How come?" Clark couldn't help but ask. He felt like he was getting somewhere.

With eyes shining like small moons, Wayne pulled out a wry smirk, "Well. I imagine I wouldn't be in a safe situation if Batman had to be there."

Against his better judgement, especially given the pinpoint accuracy of the statement, Clark let out a soft laugh, "I suppose that's true."

"Do _you_ want to meet him?" he looked curious.

"Yes, of course," Clark wanted to meet him – again, that is.

"Hm," Wayne seemed to glance over his shoulder, "Makes sense. You're a reporter, after all. Gotta make those headlines."

There was an irritated note under his tone, but Clark chalked it up to Wayne's history with paparazzi. Clark pushed up his glasses, "Could you – would – do you trust him? With Gotham, I mean."

Bruce's eyes met his again, "Not at all."

The atmosphere in the room seemed to darken after that. It was so palpable that Clark was sure it could be cut with a plastic knife. He wracked through his brain to think of something to say when he suddenly remembered, "Mr. Wayne? May I ask a few more questions? You mentioned LexCorp earlier, and I'm working on a... personal project."

Wayne shifted, and maybe he looked relieved or pleased or somewhere in between, it was hard to tell, "Oh yes. Lexie. You seen him recently? How's he doing?"

"I couldn't say. I haven't seen him since the gala," Clark said truthfully. He decided not to mention that Wayne said he'd had a meeting with LexCorp only yesterday. The man's memory wasn't the best.

"Oh, good," Wayne said offhandedly.

What?

"Sorry?" he asked out loud.

Wayne froze, and Clark heard his heart rate spike for the first time since they got here. He realized why with Wayne's next words, when he confessed smoothly, "I don't like to share."

What did that – ...

Wayne's eyes were steady on him, intense and dark, devouring him with one look. Clark's mouth dried.

"Oh."

The man's lips stretched into a wide smirk.

Bruce Wayne was a man who oozed confidence. There was a fine line between confident and arrogant, and Wayne was _right on that line._

"I hadn't realized I was yours to share, Mr. Wayne," it came out before he could stop it, and maybe it sounded a bit rude, but Clark felt an awful lot like a souvenir.

Wayne offered, "You could be."

Clark swallowed. Well. There was a thought. Or two. Or several.

Unable to bear the weight of Wayne's stare any longer, he moved his focus down to the notepad in his hands.

He wouldn't fall for it. He _wouldn't._

Wayne clearly didn't want anything serious. Clark did.

It just would not work.

Not to mention how unprofessional this was.

Clark cleared his throat, "Wayne Enterprises and LexCorp have a history of partnerships. What future projects do you hope to tackle?"

He didn't want to throw any accusations or call LexCorp shady and unethical in front of Wayne, especially when he didn't have any evidence to back it up. All Kent had gathered so far was Superman's word, which didn't have much sway in court.

He'd caught Luthor messing around in Addis Ababa for an entire two weeks before he suddenly packed up and left. Clark was worried that he found what he was looking for. Luthor had flat out told Superman that he was trying to kill him, and he didn't care who got hurt in the process. This wasn't new.

What was, however, was that Clark had caught discrepancies in LexCorp account statements, and funding was mysteriously disappearing. So were his employees. In the records of employment, their absences were labeled as vacations or indefinite leaves. It was an obvious cover-up. Clark dug further and realized that these people had disappeared, period. Gone. Clark suspected human experimentation of some kind, which was awful, but if Luthor was doing it to get to Superman, then it was on _him._

Superman usually heard from Luthor every once in a while. But it had been well over a month since he'd had any real trouble with that man. It was the silence before a storm.

The billionaire was looking bored again, "The usual. Environmental tech. Or was it vaccines?"

"What about LexCorp's project in Ethiopia?" Clark asked.

Wayne's eyes had been dragging across the room, as though he was trying to find the nearest exist, but at the mention of Ethiopia, his eyes snapped onto him, "Dunno. But I heard Ethiopia's ore industry produces some of the best emeralds. They'd make for great cufflinks."

Emeralds? What would Luthor want with jewels?

Though... Wayne was on to something. Ethiopia was resourceful when it came to minerals. Maybe Luthor was stocking up on products to weaponize them.

But surely Luthor wasn't that ignorant; there wasn't anything from here that could hurt him. A reckless, teenaged Clark had tried.

Maybe this didn't have anything to do with Superman; maybe Luthor was setting his sights on something else.

So then, what was Luthor scheming?

Clark's confusion must have shown on his face because Wayne smiled airily, "I'm a fan of pearls. What about you, Clark?"

"Uh," Clark refocused. He couldn't afford any of that, nor did jewelry ever catch his interest, "No preference."

"This is where I tell you that you're more precious than any gem could be. But, I'll keep it to myself," Wayne winked.

Okay.

And _that_ marked the end of this conversation.

Clark flushed despite himself and turned off the recorder with purposefully shaky hands, "Um, I suppose I have everything I need. Thank you for your time today, Mr. Wayne."

"Aw, done so soon?" Wayne pouted.

Clark didn't look at his lips, "I – yeah. I'll have to start writing immediately to meet the afternoon deadline."

"Bummer. Well, it's been an absolute pleasure to see you again, Clark. Despite the circumstances," he said, and Clark was immediately reminded of the disaster waiting for him outside.

His mood dropped, "You too."

Wayne was oblivious to it, "Great! See you around."

He grabbed his stuff, careful about the mess, and set Wayne's pen on the table before rising to his feet. Wayne was already on his phone, distracted by whatever social media made that jarring 'ping' sound.

Clark was out the door.

He had mixed feelings about this article. For one thing, Clark was still at fault. But Wayne made some good points. He'd write it because he promised he would, and Perry would have a fit otherwise, but that didn't mean he had to go above and beyond. Clark would just lay out the facts and use some of Wayne's statements. He'd let the public decide what they wanted to do.

Wayne was right. Even if the world hated him, Clark didn't think he could stop. He messed up with Zod, and he would probably make more mistakes as he went on, but even if he could just help one person at the end of the day, it was someone who's day he helped make better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't think of a way to add this in without it sounding like a direct reference, but this wasn't like the movie; Zod came alone and there was no zappy Black Zero ship thing, so the destruction wasn't as bad. And I think a Bruce Wayne who hadn't lost Jason would have a less... emotional response to the Superman/Zod fight than in BvS, but that's just my take. Having some fun here :)


	5. Gray

The article was a success, not landing the front page because that was rightfully taken by an objective report on the day's events, but it turned enough heads. Like a domino effect, his article had triggered other reporters to think the same. It was a common tactic used by media outlets, but that hadn't been Clark's intention. He just wanted to make things right. If only he knew how.

The whispers of distrust in Superman had lessened, marginally, but enough to be noticeable. There was a wrongness in writing an article to essentially manipulate the people into forgiving him, but Wayne hadn't known that was what he'd done when he'd requested for it, and Clark wasn't in any position to say no. He owed it to him, at the very least. If he could help just _one_ person after all this, Clark would feel better. Not to mention, it was a lot easier helping with physical labor when the people weren't flinching in fear at the sight of his cape. Clark had spent the past few days transporting the injured to hospitals outside of Metropolis since the ones here were overwhelmed. 

If only he'd taken the time to research his origins, its history, asked himself if there was even a chance that something could go wrong, or even considered that there might be someone out there with more strength than himself, he could have prevented this.

People died, and he killed them.

Clark had been tight in the chest and numb in the limbs for days. He'd cried himself to sleep and woke up teary-eyed but too exhausted to do more than choke back sobs.

He had to move on; he _had_ to keep going, otherwise he'd find himself trapped in a cycle of failure and self-hatred. Superman had to pretend that everything was alright because there was a little girl stuck in a burning apartment and a man trapped in a car rolling down a cliff. Superman kept the cape because it was the right thing to do. That didn't mean it didn't hurt.

Judging by Ma's frantic call and their discussion afterwards, he'd made the right decision. She had been worried sick, and Clark had been avoiding her out of cowardice. But she reminded him not to give up, not unlike Wayne.

He didn't feel any less guilty for what he'd done. But now he felt something akin to hope.

Safe to say, Clark was looking more forward to the next week's charity gala. It was for the rebuilding of Metropolis, hosted by Lex himself. And while before he'd been dreading the event, now he was feeling more optimistic. Everything that had happened was his fault, yet Wayne had encouraged him to persevere through such a fallback. He'd been right. Clark had been looking at this as a finality when it was anything but. Everything went wrong with Zod's sudden appearance; people lost their lives, and irreparable damage was done to those who didn't deserve it.

Clark could never return the lives he'd stolen, and he'd mourn for them for ages to come. But if he settled into that mindset of failure and mistake, gave up, _more_ lives would be lost. Right now, he had to do all he could. Superman had a responsibility, and Clark had to have courage. He had to focus on what went right.

At least Zod came alone. There was no knowing how Clark would fair against more than one Kryptonian. Not well, most likely. And thank God that Clark destroyed that ship before Zod could start terraforming the planet. If he'd been a minute late, Metropolis would look very different right now. 

Lois Lane had interviewed Superman – not knowing it was Clark she was speaking to – and after a heartfelt apology to the public, he answered all her questions with Bruce's words in the back of his mind. Funny how one conversation could return his willpower to keep going. To think it had come from Bruce Wayne, of all people.

Clark was hoping Wayne would be in attendance that night. He wasn't looking for an interview – he suspected he filled Bruce's monthly quota either way – but it would be nice to talk to him, even for a bit.

He put on his most oversized, outdated suit and tie and made his way to the gala.

Unfortunately, once he arrived, he was immediately reminded of all the reasons why he hated these events. Being surrounded by the one percent should have been a great thing from a reporter's position, but instead it was stifling. Not many of them were rude to him, likely because they wanted to be in good graces with the press. But that was the problem. Everything was all fake. False promises, double-sided compliments, and tight-lipped smiles. These sorts of nights really drained him out. He grew up to value truth and honesty – hiding his abilities excluded. Not to say these were bad people – just... these events tended to encourage a lot of shady behaviour.

He hoped he didn't look too bothered by being here. It was important, Clark reminded himself. All these rich folk were going to donate to assist in rebuilding the city. The city _he_ hurt. Clark ought to be here, just as Superman had to be out there.

Something smacked into his leg, and Clark deliberately stepped back so he didn't break anything. In alarm, he looked down to see a child clutching onto his thigh, inches away from faceplanting into the cold marble floor. Clark hadn't seen anyone this young at a gala in a long time. The kid looked to be in his pre-teens and despite his age, dressed heck of a lot better than Clark.

The boy flushed in embarrassment, stepping back, "Sorry, sir! I tripped!"

"Your shoe's untied," Clark laughed, spotting the culprit.

"Oh, you're right!" his eyes widened, and he crouched to tie it. When he stood back up, he held out his hand, "I'm Dick Grayson, pleased to meet you."

"Clark Kent," Clark shook his hand. The name rung bells, but Clark couldn't think of why.

Dick's expression flashing with something Clark couldn't place, but he didn't have long to ponder over it. Someone cleared their throat, and both of them turned their heads. Clark froze, as did Dick.

"Dick. What have I said about running?" Bruce Wayne stood with his arms crossed and a stern expression.

"Not to?"

Wayne looked good – Clark's heart raced – but when didn't he?

Uh. Maybe Clark had a teeny, tiny problem.

It wasn't that big of a deal though, right? Clark could be attracted to someone without catching feelings. That was normal.

It was just... He couldn't bear the thought of falling for someone he couldn't have. This was _Bruce Wayne_ for crying out loud. Not only was Wayne way out of his league, there was no chance that Wayne would want him for more than a night. Not to mention the concerns that came with his other identity. Clark couldn't possibly hope to hide the other half of himself forever, and he couldn't tell his partner either – much less a public figure like Bruce Wayne – because not only would that be a significant part of his life to keep from them, but it would put them in danger. Superman was bulletproof. A human wasn't.

Clark was getting ahead of himself. This was simply a physical attraction – nothing would come of it, and once Wayne walked away, Clark would forget all about him.

"Was there an emergency?" Wayne asked Dick with a raised brow.

"Yes!" Dick exclaimed, expression determined. Now that had Clark tensing. Even Bruce looked vaguely interested. But then Dick continued on, gesturing to a table with wild hands, "They're serving _cucumber_ _sandwiches,_ Bruce! I _have_ to try again."

Wayne's eyes widened, and as if there was some inside joke, he uncrossed his arms and laughed, "Urgh, fine. Grab me a few. Chris, would you like one?"

Somehow he wasn't surprised that Wayne had forgotten his name again, "Clark. And sure."

He wasn't hungry, but it would be rude to say no.

Dick hurried away towards the food, speed-walking this time, and the entire interaction was strange enough to have Clark's head spinning. He said to Bruce, "You seem close."

"I'd hope so," Bruce chuckled, "He's my son."

Ah.

Maybe if he hadn't spent so much time researching Batman, he'd have come across this information when he was meant to be looking into Bruce. He flushed in embarrassment. Clark should have known this by now.

Wayne was unusually observant, "Don't feel bad for not knowing. Actually, I'm glad! He's still a minor, so we put more effort in enforcing his privacy rights."

Clark nodded in understanding then grinned when he spotted Dick stacking his plate with sandwiches, "He's a good kid."

"He's the best," Bruce nodded, easing into that Vogue smile Clark was beginning to get acquainted with. He smelled like expensive cologne again - this fragrance more citrusy than the last - and faintly of alcohol. There was a hint of something natural underneath it all, but Clark wasn't going to start sniffing Wayne like a curious dog just to find out.

Clark remembered his manners, "Oh! Pardon my rudeness, Mr. Wayne. How have you been?"

"Oh, the usual. And how are you, Clark?"

"Swell, thanks. I wanted to thank you again for the interview. You helped me look at the recent events from a new perspective."

"I'm told I have a way with words," he boasted, then gestured vaguely to the back of the room, "Did you hear my closing speech? It was one of my best. Fox may have written it, but I delivered it with the punch, you know?"

"Unfortunately, I only just arrived," Clark had been late to the gala, probably too late to be appropriate, but he'd been busy with emergencies all the way in Venezuela.

He'd been hoping he'd get a chance to snoop around in the LexCorp offices, but he didn't have enough time – or finesse – to pull that off. He was probably better off here keeping an eye on Luthor.

Clark remembered their last meeting when Luthor had tried to drug him. Wayne was impressively silent in his inebriated and clumsy state. But Wayne had always exuded a sense of grace that no alcohol could hide, like many of the millionaires and billionaires in the room. Something about the upper class and their upbringing.

Clark had no intentions of drinking Luthor's concoction, but he couldn't deny the humour in Luthor's careful planning to discretely dispose of Mr. Kent be utterly ruined in the span of two seconds.

A couple months ago, he'd found a source: a LexCorp employee with many regrets. They'd informed him that Luthor was laying around "traps" for Superman in order to run tests on chemical warfare. In other words, Luthor was putting civilians in danger in hopes of luring Superman out into the open. Clark had quickly put an end to that by destroying the factories producing the weapons and making LexCorp's crimes public. The criminal justice system didn't work against a man as cunning and rich as Luthor. Clark had been keeping an eye on LexCorp activity since then, intervening as both Superman and Clark Kent when necessary - which was often.

Yet recently, Luthor had gone quiet.

"Here you go, Mr. Kent," Dick popped in out of nowhere, holding his plate up to Clark.

The crusts were cut off delicately. Though he was shy about it, Clark grabbed a sandwich with a light smile, "Thanks."

"You're welcome!" he grinned. And despite having collected enough sandwiches to feed a small army, Dick only grabbed one before handing the rest of the plate to Wayne. After a long inspection, Dick took a big bite into it. Immediately, his nose scrunched up in disgust, "Eugh."

Well, now. This was interesting. Why had he been so excited to eat something he obviously didn't enjoy? Kids did have strange quirks sometimes.

Wayne on the other hand, was wolfing down the sandwiches without any care in the world. Or more accurately, like he didn't care about anything else in the world.

Clark spared a glance at Dick and nearly laughed at his expression. He was staring up at his father with a look of horror. Dick swallowed down what he was chewing on, grimaced, and let out whine, "I don't _get it_."

"Keep trying," Wayne said to him. He finished up the last of the sandwiches and turned to Clark, "Yum. Well, I've got to make my rounds. You know the drill. Ugh."

Clark suddenly recalled Wayne's comment - that he hated these galas. As he watched Wayne bounce around from guest to guest, Clark almost didn't believe it. He seemed to be having the time of his life. Wayne had managed to get his hands on a glass of wine between here and there, and he was laughing animatedly with the mayor.

The mayor's wife, who'd before been really kind to Superman, insisted that _Superman should have brought the fight elsewhere._ And at this, Clark couldn't help but eavesdrop. Though eavesdropping wasn't the right word. In all fairness, they weren't exactly being quiet about their conversation. Half of the room could probably hear them.

"What, like over Gotham?" Bruce replied, laughing like it was funny. It wasn't. But Kent could hear the annoyance on his tongue, couldn't hear the spike of joy in heart, so he didn't think too much on it.

Her brows shot up, "Of course not. Perhaps over the ocean? There would be less casualties."

"Good point. I'm sure Zod would have listened if Superman asked nicely," his voice was dripping with sarcasm, but he still smiled sweetly.

Clark was starting to like him. As in. Really like him.

Superman _did_ ask nicely. He'd tried words. Words hadn't worked. At least Wayne seemed to get it. It was so unexpected, that he would get this level of understanding from Bruce Wayne of all people.

Clark didn't believe everything in the tabloids. He worked in the same industry; he was very aware of how corrupt it could get. But there were layers to Wayne that Clark doubted those articles every managed to uncover. Clark was getting a taste of them, and he'd be a liar if he said this didn't interest him. That Wayne wasn’t interesting. Maybe once upon a time Clark hadn't thought that was true, but he was starting to think that there was something special about him, something much more valuable than his title and money.

The mayor laughed sincerely, cutting Clark from his thoughts, "You would be surprised, Mr. Wayne. Superman can be quite charming."

"Charming is an understatement," Wayne swirled his drink, saying serenely, "He's all I've been thinking about recently."

Clark bit his lip. Wayne hadn't lied when he said that.

"I hear he rescued you during the fight, Mr. Wayne."

"My knight in shining armour," Wayne smiled against the rim of his glass.

He threw a glance at Clark, and Clark's cheeks instantly burned at having been caught staring. He hurriedly looked away only to find that Dick was unabashedly scrutinizing him. His stare was penetrating. Like father, like son, Clark thought grudgingly.

Dick didn't dance around the bushes, "See something you like?"

Clark fumbled and bit into his sandwich to stall.

"I'm just playing with you," Dick snickered, though after a few moments, it died down, "But I wouldn't bother. My dad's a... he doesn't stick around. You'll just get hurt."

"I – that's not – I don't have feelings for him," he denied.

"Sure," Dick shrugged, and with the attention span of anyone his age, switched topics, "Did you like the sandwich?"

"It's..." Clark suddenly didn't like the taste in his mouth, "Not very much."

Dick grinned, "Finally somebody agrees with me!"

Clark left the party early, but not before saying a brief farewell to Dick. He didn't hear himself speak, going through the motions with a heavy heart. Dick's expression was pensive through his mumbling, but Clark didn't notice. His mind was elsewhere as he slipped out of the building and switched uniforms.

He'd come back – he still had a job to do, but he needed to clear his head.

There was an avalanche in Austria, so Clark rescued the two skiers drowning in the snow. Once he was certain they were in safe hands, he took a moment to enjoy the view and breathe in the fresh air. Austria was beautiful. ...And he was stalling.

Superman flew back to Metropolis in record time, landing on the LexCorp roof and changing back into his regular clothes.

Despite his commitment to his work, Clark couldn't bring himself to go downstairs just yet. Wayne was down there, and Clark would rather not see him. If only so he could untangle the mess in his head.

He was just adjusting his tie when the roof entrance door quietly clicked shut.

* * *

Bruce stepped into Luthor's dimly lit office, which was as disturbingly large as the man's ego. He had hacked into the LexCorp security system and disabled the alarms with a few swipes on his phone, but security personnel were doing their rounds, and they'd be here in four minutes. He had to be quick.

Luthor had never been a pen and paper sort of guy, nor did Bruce imagine him to be one that relied on leaving around physical evidence. But he had already scoured every last bit of LexCorp's servers, and he hadn't managed to find a single lead on _where_ Luthor stored the Kryptonite.

He'd been hoping Kent knew something about the K, but judging by the reaction – or lack thereof – Bruce got when he mentioned jewels and emphasized _green,_ he was almost certain Kent didn't know about it... yet. It was for the better. Who could predict what sort of trouble Kent would find himself in, especially if he ever learned that Luthor found a potential weapon against Metropolis' favourite boy scout? Unfortunately, with all of Kent's sniffing around, Bruce was certain he was getting close.

Now wasn't the time to think about Kent.

Bruce glanced around the room. If there was information lying around, it had to be in close proximity to Luthor. Likely right within arms reach. In short of sleeping next to it, where would it be?

His desk.

Bruce reached into his back pocket for his disposable gloves, and as he made his way over, he slipped them on with a sharp snap. The furniture was mahogany, sturdy, too big. It was the perfect storage space to implement concealments. Bruce crouched, routinely checking underneath for any hidden compartments. If not here, then Luthor might have a safe stored in one of the cupboards. That would be more secure – and troublesome for Bruce – but also more conspicuous. People would ask questions. Considering how often LexCorp was put under investigation, safes weren't exactly safe. No, Bruce would bet his money on the more traditional route.

He skimmed his hands over the bottom surfaces, along the edges, until his finger snagged.

Hm... interesting.

Bruce pulled out a pen and switched on the flashlight bit to the dimmest setting.

Ah. There it was.

Luthor had always been predictable.

A tiny groove was lodged underneath the drawer. A brief flick of the light told him there was no further tampering; the desk wasn't booby-trapped.

He reached for his tie clip and stuck the end into the little hole. The board popped open, and Bruce slid it away, just enough to reach for the stack of papers before they fell out in a mess.

The plan was to return everything just the way he left it. Luthor wouldn't know Batman was investigating until Bruce had the Kryptonite in his hands. As long as he didn't make any mistakes, Luthor wouldn't even know _who_ swiped his treasure right from under his nose.

Bruce held the flashlight between his teeth, shuffling through the papers. They looked like letters, contracts – ... nondisclosure agreements. Careful not to leave any prints, he snapped a few photos. There wasn't enough time to read through it, but what he managed to gather after skimming through them certainly piqued his interest. The k-word stuck out like a sore thumb.

He paused. Something didn't feel right.

Bruce flicked his wrist and checked the time.

He had to go.

Bruce rushed into the stairwell, only to curse under his breath. Voices were coming from the lower stairs. The elevators were too noticeable. And his four minutes were up; the guards would be in the halls by now.

He silently climbed up the steps and made his way to the roof. Bruce didn't have a grapple on him, nor could he call the Batwing out here in Metropolis without alerting Superman, but he could hide and alert Dick. The kid was pretty good at stirring up diversions. Bruce smirked, despite himself. Having Robin at his side certainly had its perks.

He silently opened the door and was careful to muffle the _click_ as he closed it shut.

A noise behind him broke him from his thoughts, the sound of a foot scuffing against cement. Bruce whipped his head around and visibly startled, "Clark!"

Kent was staring at him wide-eyed, and Bruce was sure his own expression was as equally shocked. Kent looked worse for wear – more tired and fatigued than when they'd met a couple hours earlier. His hair was impossibly more of a mess than usual, ruffled from the rooftop winds. How long had he been up here? _Why_ was he up here?

"Mr. –," he cleared his throat, "Mr. Wayne."

Bruce's heart was racing, and he tried to will it back down. It – it had been a while since someone got the drop on him.

He was suddenly extremely, enormously glad he'd told Kent about his aversion to parties the first night they'd met, otherwise the reporter would never believe him now. The circumstances were too suspicious – Bruce Wayne had absolutely no business up here, a dozen floors above the gala site in a competitor's building.

Before the man could start questioning him, Bruce beat him to the punch, "You wouldn't happen to be avoiding the fun downstairs too, would you?"

The man blinked a few times, and Bruce saw the moment he came to piece together his words. It was like a lightbulb had lit over his head. Bruce studied the way Kent's brows shot up before the man let out a small sigh and a smaller smile.

Excluding his eyes, which Bruce attributed to the glasses, Kent was an open book.

Seemingly relieved of all things – and wasn't this intriguing? – Kent nodded in agreement, "Yeah. Um. No offense."

Bruce didn't believe that for one second. He might have, if Kent had a better poker face.

It was obvious. Kent was using the same excuse he was.

_Why?_

"Lexi's parties are drab," Bruce stepped closer to Kent and away from the door, "Full offense."

Kent laughed, then cut himself off, but then chuckled breathlessly. His eyes crinkled, "I shouldn't laugh."

He had goddamn dimples _._

And quite frankly, the reaction was charming – pure, amiable. Too Kent.

Bruce needed fresh air. He needed Gotham's air. Bruce was sick and tired of Metropolis. He should be thankful that Superman hadn't situated himself in Gotham. Wayne Enterprises had him visiting Metropolis more often than he'd like. With everything that's happened, even more so. He missed Gotham, like a homesick child desperate to return to their safe place. Metropolis was too – Bruce glimpsed at Kent from the corner of his eye – too shiny. It gleamed in an imitation of perfection. It was everything Bruce hated, loud and flashy and filled with people who were driving him up the wall.

Kent's eyes suddenly shifted over his shoulder to the door. His gaze lingered there, long enough for Bruce to turn his head to see what was wrong.

The wind blew over their heads aggressively, whipping their hair this way and that, but he listened through the noise.

Kent's hearing must have been sharp, because a few moments after, Bruce heard it too. The sound of voices echoed from behind the door. Judging by the pacing and inflection, the owners weren't in a good mood. Bruce caught the static of someone communicating through a radio. Security, then.

"I don't think we're allowed up here," Bruce said as if to himself, grinning like the troublemaker Bruce Wayne was.

"We're definitely not allowed up here," Kent whispered. He threw a couple glances at the ledge of the rooftop, as though he might be weighing the pros and cons of jumping over.

Bruce briefly wondered how Kent found his way up here, considering the elevator was only reached up to Luthor's personal, heavily guarded floor. And none of the stairwell doors were easily accessible either. Security was strict. Not the worst he's come across, not by a long shot, but it was tight enough to challenge someone without his skillset.

And why here? There were easier places to go to avoid socializing. Unless...

Ah. Kent was doing his own investigations.

Bruce nearly bit his lip.

Of fucking course. What other reason would Kent be up here for? At some no-name charity gala no less. Kent didn't do gossip reports; he investigated _corruption_. Kent was the Batman of Metropolis. If the reporter showed up somewhere, bad things were going on behind the scenes.

There was nothing subtle about Kent. Nothing. The reporter didn't beat around the bush when it came to his problems with LexCorp. If they were caught up here, Luthor would know that Kent was up to no good.

Bruce had been so careful to keep his own tampering under the radar. He'd left everything in Luthor's office just as he'd found it, in perfect, pristine condition. But who knew what the hell Kent did with all of his clumsy fumbling. This poor guy was a walking disaster.

If Luthor found them casually hanging out here on the rooftop, the bastard's paranoia would catch up to him, and all of Bruce's precautions would be for naught. As much of an airhead as Bruce Wayne was, he'd be under suspicion by association. Damn it.

Kent didn't protest when Bruce grabbed his wrist and pulled him. They stepped around to the back of the protruded walls of the entrance. Just in time too. The sound of the door opening followed right after.

If Bruce was alone, he could have dealt with them the simple way.

"Who's up here?" one of the officers called out. Bruce saw a flashlight turn on. Judging by the cadence of steps, there were only two.

Bruce had maybe twenty seconds, and that was being generous.

He tightened his grip on Kent and yanked him deeper into the shadows. Bruce could feel the man's pulse racing under his fingers, and he quickly realized that he would have to be the calm one here. Kent's expression was, for once, nervous. This only made Bruce more curious about what Kent was investigating, if he was so scared to get caught. This man had been held at gunpoint and had hardly flinched.

Bruce leaned into him and murmured into his ear, "I'm going to pretend to fuck you."

Kent stiffened, and then he let out a hoarse, "W-what?"

"Sh," he shushed, quickly placed his hand against his mouth. Kent had no aptitude for stealth, whatsoever. When he heard the telltale scuff of approaching footsteps getting closer, Bruce desperately whispered, " _Play along_?"

Though his expression was conflicted, Kent nodded. Bruce breathed out in relief. Excellent. At least Kent had the foresight to recognize his own predicament. That said, if he had said no, there was no way in hell that Bruce would have touched him. Kent did add a soft, "Clothes stay on."

Bruce heard him. He didn't waste another second, twisting them around to shove the man against the wall. When Bruce grabbed thick thighs and hoisted him up, Bruce felt Kent's breath hitch, the stutter of air against his cheek. He hadn't intended to use that much force; Kent was surprisingly lighter than he looked.

They stared at each other for the briefest of moments, and Bruce tried to gauge what was acceptable.

Bruce glanced at his mouth.

He changed his mind halfway, instead lowering to kiss his neck. The skin here was soft, warm. Kent had jolted at the touch, either sensitive or new to this or both, and if that wasn't something to chew on.

Batman was simmering under his skin as this was a mission above all else, but he wouldn't let Kent recognize it for what it was.

This had to look believable. So Bruce wasn't gentle, trailing lower until he was nearly biting at Kent's shirt and then tracing a searing path back up to his chin.

"Mmh."

He found that tender spot right above the jugular, and then Kent was making that noise again, letting out breathy sounds that, fake or not, had Bruce's blood rushing south. He licked, sucked, and tasted whatever he could reach. Kent was melting into putty in his arms, gentle and pliant. But then he wasn't, arms and legs snaking across his back, drawing them impossibly closer, and holding him in place.

Bruce's whole body was unbiddenly set on fire.

His ear was within reach, and Bruce scraped his teeth against the lobe.

Kent shuddered underneath him – the movement palpable under his lips. At the light nibble of teeth, Kent had tensed, his fingers tightening their hold onto Bruce's suit. A warning.

Lightheaded, Bruce whispered faintly into his ear, "Are they watching?"

There was no subtle way to turn around and check.

A kiss, another kiss. He tasted like ambrosia. Bruce found his pulse; it was racing erratically, and it was easy to put all of his attention there. When Kent didn't respond – he was so sensitive, god – Bruce dug his fingers into the dark locks and yanked his head to the side.

Bruce mumbled into his skin, " _Clark_."

"Yes –," he choked out, then bit his lip when Bruce relentlessly rolled his tongue, "– _yes."_

Gaze at the night sky and jaw slack, Clark exposed more skin, inviting him in. Bruce obliged him, peppering light kisses along the shadows of Batman's fingers, as though offering an apology. It was this delicate touch that seemed to crack whatever it was that was holding Clark back.

" _Bruce –_ ," he groaned lowly, the sound rumbling through his body and spreading into Bruce like wildfire.

He risked a glance and saw Clark staring at him with those once impenetrable eyes, pupils blown and out of focus.

Fingers twisted into the dark tangle of his hair, tugging, burying Bruce's head into the crook of his neck. He inhaled deeply.

Clark was suddenly the one kissing his neck, and Bruce groaned, lashes fluttering shut.

He'd forgotten how good this could feel.

Bruce clutched onto him harder. Christ—there was no give. None. Bruce grunted. He spread his hands over Clark's shoulders, and they just kept going and going and going. Bruce's partners were never this – he'd never wanted to – fuck. Bruce was suddenly desperate to have Clark naked, on top of him, in him, around him – _anything._

Bruce was inches away from pressing his lips against that perfect mouth when they were suddenly being ripped apart.

_"I said stop what you're doing! Stop already!"_

The cool night air was a slap to the face, and now separated from Clark, Bruce was sure he was being skinned alive.

"God _dammit_!" Bruce growled.

He inhaled, exhaled, meditated right then and there to get his body back in control.

The security officers were shouting at him, might have been for a while, but he didn't care.

He'd forgotten. About them. About why he was here. The mission. Bruce had lost control, and this was unacceptable. Bruce wanted him – that much was glaringly obvious. But that wasn't an issue. Or it wouldn't be, if Bruce could get a grip with himself.

Kent visibly swallowed, and Bruce's attention was brought back to the man's neck. There wasn't a hint of a mark on him, and Bruce fought down the disappointment. The man was breathing hard. Kent would glance at him, flush red, then look away when he noticed he was caught. For once, he wasn't able to meet Bruce's stare, and knowing it was him who caused that sent an unwarranted thrill down his spine.

He frowned.

A light was suddenly shot into his eyes, and Bruce squinted against it. The other officer's brows immediately shot up, "Hold on... Bruce Wayne?"

He blinked, staring up at the security guards stupidly. This still wasn't over; he needed to refocus.

"What a cockblock..." he slurred his words just a little. Ignoring the hammering of his heart, he patted his pockets, "How about I – what if I give you – "

One of the officers smiled hopefully, but the other shot his partner _a look_ before he turned to him, "No, thank you, Mr. Wayne."

The cops in Gotham would have gladly taken the bribe. Metropolis never failed to offer a culture shock.

"Sorry, sir. But you can't be up here," the other security guard then added awkwardly, "You, uh, you can finish somewhere else."

Bruce glanced at Kent and leered, wiggling his brows, "What'd you say, baby?"

He smirked at him in a way he figured was repulsive: playful, smug, and objectifying, making sure Kent knew it was Bruce Wayne with him and not anyone else.

He'd wanted to get close to Kent, but this was too much. Bruce was slipping into territory he avoided like the plague. Either he fucked Kent and got it out of his system, or he let the man go right here and now.

Bruce would leave it up to Kent to decide what they did from here.

Kent took a moment, but he shook his head, "I should... I should get going."

It was simultaneously a relief and a disappointment. He let the disappointment show on his face.

They were lightly pushed by the officers, "C'mon, you two. This way."

Bruce made sure to stumble. After an hour or two at any party, Bruce used whiskey like mouthwash and spread it over his skin like lotion. It helped reaffirm how not of sound mind that Bruce really was when he got... reckless at certain events. And he was sure they could smell him from where they were standing.

There was some radio chatter, and one of the security spoke into it with an eyeroll, "Just Wayne."

The other one, the man who hadn't fallen for the bribe, turned to him and asked with an edge to his tone, "How'd you even get up here?"

The cameras were conveniently malfunctioning tonight, so he wasn't worried about any inconsistencies. Bruce grinned, "Elevators. You might want to wipe them down."

Everyone grimaced at Bruce Wayne's crassness, but he pretended not to notice.

They were led to said elevators, and Bruce checked his phone as they walked. Alfred had sent him a text letting him know that Dick was done for the night and on his way to the penthouse. Bruce replied with a brief note of acknowledgement before returning his attention to his surroundings.

It was interesting how neither officers spared Kent a glance. They didn't seem to care about who he was. Bruce was aware that his own presence had that consequent effect on the people around him, but not to this degree. Kent towered over the officers, and though his character was unassuming – perhaps even shy... no, _anxious_ in larger groups – one would think they would be curious about who had caught the billionaire's attention. What was more curious was Kent's stride. Though he was clearly embarrassed, having gone mute and flushing beet red, Kent exuded his usual air of confidence over the situation.

Bruce recalled Kent's blasé attitude to having a gun held at his back.

He'd come across a lot of reporters in his time, and all were stubborn, relentless, and determined. Kent was on a whole other level.

It was ridiculous how no one else noticed this.

Bruce really could use him. If the journalist wanted information, he would get it. All he was lacking were the resources, which Bruce had plenty of. And Kent wanted information on Luthor. Incidentally, so did Bruce.

The silence in the elevator was incredibly thick, awkward, and it was unsurprisingly Kent who broke first, "Um. Mr. Wayne?"

"Hm?"

Kent blinked a few times before pushing up his glasses. He dared to look hopeful, "Will I see you again?"

Bruce didn't really have to think about it. There were witnesses, and Bruce Wayne had a reputation.

"If I have the time," he said dismissively, "I'll text you."

It was a diplomatic answer. Polite, but vague.

He didn't have Kent's number, and they both knew it. It'd get his point across.

Kent looked up at him, expression hurt, then resigned.

The moment the elevator doors opened, Kent made a beeline out in the direction of the exit, and Bruce had just barely caught the, "Goodbye, Mr. Wayne," before he disappeared in a flurry.

One of the two guards rose his brow, and the other looked annoyed, "You're a prick."

Bruce Wayne shrugged, "Plenty of fish in the sea."

But with the reporter gone, Bruce came to a realization. Because while Kent was a liability, he was also a great opportunity. Either way, he was undoubtedly too big of a playing card to ignore.

He was going to do it. Bruce was going to get Kent to trust him. To _want_ him. Properly. Lust made you do foolish things – as in, for example, encourage a man to overshare and divulge things they otherwise wouldn't.

Kent was some sort of liaison for Superman and an enemy of Luthor, but that wasn't enough of a reason to emotionally manipulate someone like he planned to. But Kent was messing around with Batman, and that was more than a reason for concern. He had to keep his tabs on this one.

Bruce wouldn't make the same mistake twice; he wouldn't underestimate Kent. Bruce wouldn't fall for his timid attitude – Kent was an unstoppable force, a storm hiding in waiting behind white clouds.

He frowned.

The closer Kent got to Bruce – and the more stupid he saw that Bruce Wayne was – the better. The more he got to know him, the more he'd be convinced that Bruce could never be Batman. Kent would realize soon enough that Bruce Wayne wasn't worth catching feelings for. Really, Kent was a sensible man. He couldn't possibly get _that_ attached to someone like Bruce.

And along the way, he would get him to talk.

Bruce threw on his best Wayne smile and stumbling into the party. Tonight was as good a night for a scandal as any.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay; it's been a pretty shit few weeks.  
> Anyone catch the princess diaries reference?  
> Also, if you were confused about the heavy emphasis on sandwiches and would like to know more, it's a reference to Alfred's cucumber sandwiches, which you should totally search it up cuz it's cute.


	6. Red

Clark carefully closed the magazine and set it back down on the table. He couldn't believe he'd spent money on the thing. He'd been out on a morning grocery run, arguing with the devil on his shoulder over grabbing an extra chocolate bar. Those sly store owners put them next to checkout because they knew Clark couldn't resist.

But then a familiar face had caught his eye. There on the front cover of a magazine were strong eyebrows, an expensive suit, and that infuriating smirk Clark was sure was just for show. A lie that became a habit until it turned true. Like Superman's smile. With a sinking heart, the hand that had been reaching for a package of joy changed course and went for the overpriced gossip rag instead.

In bold, pink letters: _Bruc_ _e Wayne and Miss World Australia?!_

He huffed. He should just throw it out.

Who was he to hope that Bruce Wayne would want to settle down with him? Clark Kent? Superman or no Superman, Clark was just some guy.

Clark wasn't looking to change himself or even Wayne; if the man wasn't interested, he wasn't interested.

Now Clark had to chuckle. He felt humiliated. And he couldn't even be mad at the man. It was his own fault for hoping that something serious would blossom. He was just like the rest of Wayne's admirers, hoping that he'd be the _one_. You know. The one who would "win" Wayne's heart. But winning wasn't a tasteful thought. As if this was some sort of competition, and Wayne was the prize. It was just - there was something special about that man, and Clark had wanted to see more.

It didn't help that he was beautiful, and Clark didn't mean just on the outside. The man was quite literally a model. But underneath all that... He smiled wistfully. Wayne was a good man.

He brushed his hand over the glossy magazine paper. Wayne's unmoving eyes stared back at him, reminding Clark of the glaciers in the Arctic and the reflective walls of the Fortress. The colour of ice, breathtakingly picturesque, ...and lonely.

Clark had thought that he'd understood a little bit. Just a little bit. That maybe Bruce was the same as him, wearing a mask out of responsibility for his public image. Maybe Bruce didn't have to hide boots and a cape, but the principle was the same. The man was tired of publicity. Maybe he kept it up because it was the right thing to do, but that was something that Clark would never know.

At least now he had closure.

A proper, romantic relationship was a fanciful dream at best, but Bruce's casual way of dismissing him had hurt more than he'd expected. Clark had been hoping to find a friend in Bruce. Even Dick.

He was suddenly grateful that he had declined the offer for the one night. Clark was sure he would feel even worse if they did take it a step further. It would be a night filled with regrets and bad decisions.

It should have felt like he just dodged a bullet. But what good was that when bullets couldn't hurt him in the first place?

Maybe Clark should have said yes. Taken what he could before they parted ways.

He closed his eyes and leaned back into his couch. Immediately, memories of last night flooded his mind. Bruce's racing heart pounding loudly into his ears, and that look in his eyes – sharp and focused, wearing an expression nothing like Clark had ever seen before. God, his _mouth._

Clark swallowed.

Faster than strictly necessary, he opened up his laptop and got to work. Clark was determined to push Wayne to the furthest corner of his mind. Well. He tried. Unfortunately, his problems with Luthor were heavily interlaced with Wayne Enterprises.

There was no way Wayne Enterprises would collaborate with LexCorp if Wayne knew there was something shady going on. Wayne didn't run that sort of company. For all of Gotham's reputation, Wayne Enterprises managed to rise above it. Clark had investigated their work earlier on and was impressed by their notably clean slate. Lack of corruption aside, the company's reputation would plummet if they were working outside of the law. A partnership with LexCorp was already a risky business decision; LexCorp was infamous for their unethical practices. People were already asking questions.

Either nothing was truly going on, or something indeed was, and Wayne was oblivious to it.

But this was _Wayne_ , for crying out loud. Wayne and subtle did not belong in the same sentence. If there was something going on behind the scenes that Wayne knew about, Clark was positive people halfway around the world would be talking about it by now. Wayne had accidentally spoiled the endings for blockbusters before their release dates more times than Clark had fingers. The world knew everything about him, from the colour of his socks to the unnecessary details of his sex life. The media made sure nothing was left unturned, and Wayne was always more than willing to answer their questions. He overshared so much that Clark doubted he could keep a secret even if his life depended on it.

_Except that socialite Bruce Wayne doesn't like parties, donates to charities without publicizing them, has a kid he keeps as deeply under wraps as possible, and requests not to mention his heroics when Clark's writing an article about him._

Clark pulled off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes.

Besides that, no, Clark didn't think Wayne knew about Luthor's scheming. For another thing, Luthor was meticulous and frustratingly elusive. Wayne was the owner of his company, but it was his staff who read the fine print. Who knew what Wayne thought he was agreeing to when partnering with Lex?

And he sincerely doubted that Wayne would ever intentionally hurt anyone. Odds were that Luthor was manipulating him. But how?

Wayne Enterprises had resources beyond Luthor's wildest dreams. If that guy got even a whiff of it, Clark didn't doubt Luthor would put Wayne's life in danger just to get his hands on a few pieces of tech.

Clark didn't have any way to find out Wayne Industries' agreements in their partnership with LexCorp without getting in legal trouble. Clark pushed up his glasses. However, Luthor had been a few feet away at the party, and Clark had abilities that had come in quite handy. While not exactly running away – he was, but he'd deny it if anyone asked – from Wayne, he'd caught a few words a few floors above that spiked his interest.

_"But we haven't finished running tests – "_

_"I didn't ask for your opinion. Make sure there are cameras. I want to see Superman's face the moment he realizes he's about to die."_

_"...Yes, sir. Which lab first, sir?"_

As it turns out, Luthor had a "secret" lab in one of his smaller towers in the heart of Metropolis. The entire thing was meant to be hush-hush, but no number of walls could smother Luthor's excited whispers to his assistant.

Clark frowned. A happy Lex Luthor always spelled trouble.

* * *

Superman lifted up a crate of bricks, flying up to the top of construction site slowly to make sure none fell and crashed to the ground. He set the cargo down next to the other piles. Clark could handle basic maintenance – he grew up on a farm with an outdated truck – but rebuilding a tower was far beyond his understanding. He put his hands on his hips, surveying the area. There wasn't much else he could do here. Besides lifting heavy things, his powers seemed to be better suited to inflicting damage rather than fixing it.

"Superman! Thanks a ton!" a worker grinned at him.

He couldn't help himself, grinning at the pun, "Two tonnes actually."

The man laughed, before sending him off, "Go on, we're good here."

Clark thanked him before making his way to the Metropolis General Hospital. While he couldn't ever compensate for the lives he lost, he could at least check in on the ones he'd hurt.

Families and staff startled when he stepped into the building. There was a line, and he got several offers to skip it, but he politely declined.

The receptionist at the front desk smiled when he stepped up, "Great to see you again, Superman."

He asked if he could visit a few floors and offer the staff and patients some company for emotional support. This wasn't the first time he'd dropped by, so she gave him permission as long as he understandably asked the nurses and patients beforehand. After a few phone calls, they directed him to several floors, PACU and ICU being the busiest since the disaster and where he was most needed. Clark made sure he visited the Mental Health floors each visit.

Clark spoke to the staff and spent a couple hours with the patients, lending an ear to the ones who were awake.

"Right now, we need beds, meds, and blood," a resident was explaining. Her voice was steady despite the obvious rush she was in.

"I can't offer blood," Superman said. Not only was his skin impenetrable, but he wasn't human. Once again, he was reminded that for all his strength, he still wasn't able to help where it really mattered. He wasn’t giving up though, "But I can spread the word and carry donations from nearby cities."

"That would be excellent. If you get a hold of the Blood Services, they should provide you with the details on collection, storage, and transport. Thank you for your help, Superman," she hurried away with her pager going off.

Later, he sat down in pediatrics with a child who was going to be discharged that day. Unfortunately, it was before she was ready, but they needed to make room for more patients.

"I was so scared," she admitted, and her voice trembled, "My leg hurts, and I need crutches, but I'm okay now. And mom and dad are okay too."

Superman smiled a genuine one for the first time that day, "It's okay to be scared. It means you're brave. And I'm willing to bet your mom and dad are really proud of you."

"Do you ever feel scared?" she asked. The I.V. pump started beeping when she moved her arm. The sound was familiar, more so because of his many hospital visits with Pa.

"Yes, I do," Clark reached out to unkink the tubing, thinking about a man with bones that could break, running to save a stranger instead of himself. Bravery, huh. When the beeping stopped, he let himself continue, "The alien was really scary. But the scariest thing was seeing everyone get hurt."

"It's not your fault, you know. It was the bad guy's," she said matter-of-factly.

Children were awfully perceptive. Despite the self-loathing in his heart, Superman grinned, "Speaking of bad guys, I should get back to work."

"Aw, okay," she then asked shyly, "Can I have a hug before you go?"

"Of course," Clark wrapped his arms around her, red cape falling over them, "And remember what I said about those needles. The nurses aren't trying to hurt you. I promise."

Looking ready to cry at the mention of needles, she stammered out an unconfident, "I – I'll try."

Seeing as the hospital windows didn't open all the way, Clark left through the front door. He was in the sky in moments, going about fulfilling his promise about blood. He hadn't slept since the destruction, and though he didn't need sleep, a terrible kind of exhaustion was dragging him down.

Clark gazed hopelessly into the bright skies. No amount of sunlight was helping today.

* * *

Hidden in the shadows on a rooftop nearby, Batman attached the box to his utility belt with a _click_. The Kryptonite sample was lighter than he'd anticipated but large for the average meteorite. Bruce didn't doubt there was more out there, likely found and hidden away by Luthor, but at least he had gotten his hands on their primary sample. The box was lined with lead, so he wasn't expecting radiation poisoning, however –

However, that wasn't his concern right now.

No. This was worse. Much worse. Because once again, Kent was proving to be a problem.

Bruce should have known Kent would have investigated further. Never in a million years though could he have predicted that this innocuous seeming man would blunder his way into LexCorp's labs with nothing but a camera. It was the temerity he'd expected out of a man passionate in his work, yet it was exactly this sort of recklessness that got civilians in troublesome situations. Kent had thrown himself into danger headfirst.

Three of Luthor's goons had the reporter backed up into a wall on a LexCorp rooftop, one pointing a handgun at his head. Kent himself didn't seem to be as scared as the average person, but he wasn't one, was he? Bruce knew the type. Content creators like investigative journalists were adrenaline junkies, but worse – they had a sense of direction. And all that bravado had to come from some false sense of security, that Superman would be there to save the day. In hindsight, Bruce should have seen this coming.

How was this man still alive? If Robin hadn't warned him of Kent stumbling around in Gotham's worser streets in his search for the Batman, Bruce would never have reached him in time. Kent would be dead. If not by Dent's hands, then by someone else's. And this was before Kent could have known whether or not Bruce would hurt him on sight. No one willingly sought out Batman with the expectation of a peaceful confrontation. Unless they were named Clark Kent. Someone had to hold this man's hand and tell him to look both ways before he crossed the street. Unfortunately, it seemed like this job would be left to Bruce.

Silently, he landed back onto the rooftop he'd escaped from, unnoticed by the group.

For all of Metropolis' shine, the criminals here kept their crime subtle: hidden under politics, under the act of doing good. Right now, he was dealing with single-action handguns that could be hidden in a suit jacket, a knife in their socks, and that was it. Bruce didn't mind. It made his job easier.

Bruce was in front of a civilian, so he tried to be gentle. _Tried._

With his left arm, he threw a Batarang at the hand holding the gun and used his right to shoot the cable out of his Batclaw. He pulled the bastard in. The man didn't even get a chance to reflexively pull the trigger, but Bruce could see the rest of them reaching into their pockets, so he sent a swift, sharp kick into the man's head.

"Who's there?!" one shouted.

He didn't waste a moment, disarming the other two and pushing Kent out the way of a frenzied knife. The blade only grazed Kent, but Bruce was a little more aggressive with his next hits. This never happened; he never let the civilian get hurt, not when his opponents were this weak. He was distracted, and Kent paid the price. He grabbed the last of them by the head and kneed her before snapping a meaningful punch to her jaw. Bruce let her go and didn't wait to watch her body drop to the cement.

Rising to stand at his full height, he zeroed in on Kent.

The man didn't appear to be that frazzled. Or so he thought. The Batman took a step closer and got a better look. Green in the face, he was shaking and short of throwing up. There was a tear in suit jacket from the cut. Bruce had thought it had been a shallow injury, but Kent seemed to be in a lot of pain, so maybe he was wrong.

This was the problem. When figures like Superman – and frustratingly, Batman – showed up, civilians thought they could do the same thing. And without fail, their sense of heroics landed them in danger, every single time. Maybe there was a thing as too much fear – too much hope. Superman made men like Kent – reckless, determined, and who bore a strong sense of justice – only that much more reckless and determined in their pursuit of justice.

Yet again, Bruce noticed with appreciation, Kent's priorities were the people.

His eyes were darting to the men on the ground, squinting in the dark, and his voice wavered in a raw sort of panic that had Bruce clenching his fists, "Are they - are they dead? Please tell me you didn't kill them."

Bruce should have disappeared right then. Dropped Kent off on the ground and left without a word. They were outside the labs, there weren't anymore guards standing watch, and Kent could find his way home from there. Instead, he deigned the man with a response, "They're fine."

And instantly regret it. Because Kent took it as an opening to attempt a conversation – or more accurately, an interrogation, "You're not in Gotham. Why are you here? What business do you have with Luthor?"

Bruce frowned, stepping closer to him. This wouldn't bode well. He didn't want Kent digging his paws into this anymore. Maybe he should handle this like he did with his kid. Tell Dick no, and he'd want to do it more. Don't hit the big, red button, Dick.

Kent shivered when Bruce approached him, and the reflex was visibly noticeable.

How deep was that cut?

Bruce grabbed the man by the tie, lifting him to his feet, "You don't get to ask me questions."

"That's – ," Kent cut himself off, legs unsteady. He was sweating profusely. This would have been expected, but Bruce could tell Kent was getting worse by the second. His tech read his vitals as unstable. The man was in shock. Or did Luthor drug him?

How the hell did Kent get into the labs anyways?

"I'm taking you to the hospital."

"No!" Kent gasped suddenly, clutching his injured arm, then his abdomen, as if he didn't know where hurt more, "My apartment. _Please_."

Bruce gave him a once over, then frowned. Kent clearly disliked hospitals, but Bruce was the last person on Earth who had any right to criticize that. And now wasn't the time to argue. They couldn't stay here long.

He collected his Batarang, unarmed the bodies, and double-checked that the security cameras were disrupted. Bruce glanced at the crippled men laying on the concrete. They were on the rooftop with no source of light overhead besides the night sky, the cameras were manually disabled, and he'd moved fast enough not to be identified. They wouldn't have recognized him as the Batman. Good. As long as Luthor remained oblivious to his meddling.

The same couldn't be said for Kent. Luthor would be after him now, if he already wasn't.

"You need to keep quiet," Batman warned, "The public can't know about this. Not yet."

Kent was either in too much pain to argue, or he found his sense of sensibility from deep within, because he offered a little nod. The frail motion only served to remind Bruce that he was holding an injured civilian.

Bruce picked him up, ignoring the startled protest. They had wasted too much time up here already.

As Bruce made his way to the ledge of the roof, Kent's grip tightened on his armor as his whole body tensed. It was a gesture he'd dealt with before, considering that most people didn't jump from buildings on the regular. And offering comfort wasn't in Batman's job description. His priority right now was Kent's safety.

"Stop fidgeting," he demanded. He needed to focus.

Metropolis had too many glass skyscrapers that were too far apart. Gotham, on the other hand, was made for grappling. LexCorp's labs was thankfully hidden in plain sight, deep amongst the other glittering towers in the city instead of the outskirts of town. Bruce quickly laid out his approach. Kent was light enough. He simultaneously called in the Batwing and stepped up onto the ledge.

"What are you doing," Kent asked with so much dread in his tone, it didn't even sound like a question.

Bruce pulled out his grapple, "Hold on."

The wind blew, whipping at his cape, and the Batman jumped.

* * *

The Batwing dropped them off overtop Kent's apartment. Kent couldn't even stand on his feet, and Bruce had no intentions of sauntering through the halls where anyone could see him, so Bruce tightened his hold on Kent and rappelled them down.

Kent lived on the top floor, so it wasn't a far trip down. What he saw pissed him off, and he let out a noise of disbelief. Kent had not only forgotten to lock his window, but he had left it wide open. How careless could one person be?! Especially as an investigative journalist, he would be making enemies left and right. Enemies with money – money that could buy weapons and people to wield them.

Kent was an accident waiting to happen.

He pointedly ignored the soft, _"You know where I live?!"_

Bruce crawled inside to what was obviously the man's bedroom and unceremoniously dropped him on the bed. Kent was safe enough here, and he wasn't losing enough blood to be in any immediate danger. Or at least, he wasn't before. Bruce had jostled him around during the trip, so it was best he ensured the man was still in stable condition.

Batman ordered, "Take off your shirt."

Kent bit his lip – not in a good way, but in one that had Bruce tempted to search for a trash can – and visibly trembled.

With a searching gaze, Kent nodded. Clumsy, shaking fingers fiddled with the buttons, as though unbuttoning a shirt was trickier than buttoning one up. An entire minute went by and... One. One button. Bruce was a man of patience, but this buffoon left him in a constant state of irritation, and so he had quickly run out of it.

Kent saw him approach, "What are you – "

He grabbed Kent's shirt and ripped it open, shrugging off the side of his wounded arm.

Bruce activated the flashlight in his gauntlet, waving it over the source of blood. He used his thumb, gently wiping down the incision to get a better look. Not the most hygienic thing to do, but Kent didn't have anything sterile lying around. The cut appeared to be a little over half a centimeter deep, running cleanly across a wide arm. It wouldn't scar, if Kent took proper care of it.

This didn't explain Kent's unnatural reaction. It couldn't hurt that much, could it? But Bruce had to remind himself that not everyone had as high of a pain tolerance as him. Once upon a time, Bruce wouldn't have taken a cut even as small as this that well either.

"Do you take any blood thinners?" Bruce asked, putting pressure on the wound. The bleeding hadn't stopped yet, heavy and continuous.

Kent shook his head as if to say no. He looked ready to pass out.

Bruce watched his chest rise and fall. He was short of breath, the movements irregular.

But the wound itself was fine.

"This is manageable without professional assistance. And ice it," Batman decided. Kent's eyes were wet when they landed on him, his gaze not quite meeting his own through the darkness in the room. Because Kent reminded him of one, Bruce spoke with a – mildly – softer tone that he reserved for children, "Will you be alright if I leave?"

Kent stared up at him and visibly shivered, "Yeah."

The man would figure out how to manage his pain. And Bruce had to get to the cave and start analyzing the sample as soon as possible. The iridescent green mineral was tucked away in his utility belt, but who the hell knew what it was capable of.

Something was glowing in Kent's shirt pocket. Realizing what it was, Bruce growled, reaching in and pulling out the K. He chided, "This is radioactive."

"That – ..." green reflected off Kent's glasses, the blue of his irises, as he stared wide-eyed at the rock between Batman's fingers,"...Oh."

Bruce closed his fist around it, "Luthor will be after you."

"T's fine. I'm safe," Kent mumbled.

He sounded irrationally confident about that. Bruce paused. Then, he said flatly, "Superman."

Kent's eyes snapped from the rock to Batman's face, "Huh?"

"Don't rely on anyone. Especially someone in a cape," Bruce told him, "Watch your own back."

He moved to leave, foot already out the window, when Kent stopped him, "Wait!"

Batman tilted his chin.

"Um. Uh, thank you, I mean," Kent was trembling on the bed, both sweating in a fever and chattering with the chills, "Thanks."

Maybe he _should_ call an ambulance, "Get that wound checked."

He moved again, storing the last shard of Kryptonite and pulling his grapple out, when Kent stopped him, "Wait, wait!"

" _What._ "

Kent was staring at him like civilians usually did when they weren't sure if they should be grateful or afraid.

"We should work together," Kent pushed himself up with a sudden burst of energy, "Here me out. You're trying to stop LexCorp – "

Bruce cut him off, "No."

"Why not? Two pairs of hands are better than one – "

"I work alone."

Batman disappeared with the quietest flutter of his cape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was starting to overthink this chapter, so I posted it before I could rewrite it haha


	7. Blue

Clark didn't have time to investigate the flat-out terrifying green rock Luthor was stocking up on. Unfortunately, the word kept spinning, and that meant he had to be in the office in five minutes.

He'd been planning on throwing on his uniform and confronting Lex, but if the effects of that so called Kryptonite was as bad as this, he didn't think that'd be a smart idea – especially if Luthor didn't know what it did to him yet. He'd rather keep Luthor in the dark for as long as possible.

Clark had barely managed to crawl out of the labs – Luthor had a chunk of Kryptonite the mere size of a baseball, and Clark wasn't able to get within a hundred meters from it without feeling like death's incarnate. But he'd found a shard the size of a thumb tack attached to some equipment that looked an awful lot like a gun. The piece was small enough to only make him feel like he was only close to death instead of dead a dozen times over, so he managed to grab it and go. If his hunch was correct, Luthor had been planning on using this monstrosity as a bullet against Superman. Clark had swept through the labs, but he couldn't find anymore. Not for lack of trying. It'd been like playing Hot and Cold, but with "hotter" being the sensation of getting gutted from the inside out. 

How Luthor had gotten his hands on something like this, Clark would have to find out.

Later, when he wasn't seconds away from losing his breakfast.

It was sobering to know that Clark could feel pain – physical pain. That there was something in the world that could kill him – cut him. He had been wondering for so long, and now he had his answer. He should be upset, and he supposed he was, but there was a part of him that felt relief. Clark was mortal; he could die. It didn't make him human, not by a long shot, but now he could maybe feel a little bit more normal.

Rao, the pain.

An onslaught of nausea and chills, heat that made him _sweat_ – how long had it been? – and Clark had _bled._ Blood! From a flimsy combat knife!

Evidently the Kryptonite sucked his powers dry—that was, if it wasn't killing him slowly first.

Clark doubted he'd ever willingly choose to come across Kryptonite again. The pain had been unbearable. And that was from just a tiny shard. The thought of Luthor using the entire chunk of rock on him left his skin crawling. If that were to happen... Clark was sure he would die.

At least Batman had gotten it away from Luthor.

But.

And this was a considerable but.

Batman had not only known about the Kryptonite, but he'd gone out of his way to take it. All of it. Clark was grateful, but was it in safe hands? Was he taking it to protect Superman, or because he wanted to kill him himself?

Clark didn't trust him with it, but he also wasn't in a hurry to get close to the rock again. Even if he wanted to, he didn't think he could get it back.

Let's say he did get it back. Where was he supposed to put it? In the Fortress? Or would it damage the ship too?

He'd have to plan this out quite carefully.

Once Batman had left, Clark had rushed to the bathroom and didn't leave it until the sun rose. After an awful night spent vomiting in the toilet, he'd chosen one of the worst days to arrive to work late. No one noticed if he came in a few minutes after his start time, at least not usually. But with this week's pattern of rotten luck, today was not one of those days.

Lois spotted him walking towards his desk, "Clark? Clark! Oh my god, where have you been? Perry's been looking for y—Christ, you look like shit."

"Thanks, Lo."

She snatched his bag and tried to smooth down his hair. With a shove, she hissed, "There's no time. Go see Perry! Go, go!"

Clark ruffled his hair again before he stopped in front of the door, immediately tensing.

Perry saw him gaping in the doorway, and he waved him in, "You'll catch flies, Kent! Get in here."

"Mr. Wayne!" Clark stammered, holding out his hand, "Good morning. But I mean, what are you doing here?"

"You'll have to excuse his lack of manners, Mr. Wayne," Perry glared a look that promised he'd be having a word later, "Feel free to use my office. Kent, this fine gentleman wanted to see you."

Perry left and closed the door behind him.

Clark swallowed.

Bruce Wayne looked like a million dollars. His suit was tailored to perfection, not a strand of hair was out of place, and each spray of today's cologne ought to have cost Clark's monthly rent. Unlike the gala, Wayne stood extremely out of place in Perry's office. And standing next to Clark, who – when he'd caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror this morning – could be confused for a man who'd crawled out of his own grave, Wayne looked cutting. A king swathed in gold, standing amongst peasants.

The worst part of it? Clark saw a red blemish on his neck, a hint of the bruise peaking out over the collar of his shirt. The mark _Clark_ had put there.

"Mr. Kent," Wayne smiled his smile that never quite reached his eyes – eyes that were currently assessing him. They dragged up from Clark's feet, lingering somewhere below his shoulders before they finally met his own, "You look... tired."

"Sorry," he sighed, so, so very tempted to pull out Perry's office chair and sit for a while, "Rough night."

"Oh?" Wayne's brows popped up, eyes glittering.

He blushed, "Not – not like that!"

"Like what?" Wayne feigned, but Clark knew darn well what he'd implied.

He bit his lip, changing the topic before it got out of hand, "Mr. Wayne, the Daily Planet isn't somewhere I imagine you'd spend your free time. Why are you here?"

"Would you believe me if I said that I just wanted to see you?"

"Not at all," he said, "No offence."

"None taken."

Wayne was being himself. Flirty by nature, genuine but without intent. Clark had never caught Wayne lie, so there had to be some truth to what he said. But Clark wasn't so naïve to believe that a billionaire travelled a thousand miles on a Monday morning "just to see him".

"Why are you here, Mr. Wayne?" Clark repeated softly.

"I wanted to apologize. Sincerely," the man met his eyes, "I forced myself on you that night, and I didn't even have the decency to consider your welfare afterwards. If you want to press charges, I would even encourage it."

That was... Was that what Wayne thought this was? Clark's brows furrowed, "Mr. Wayne. I had consented. Actually... you weren't sober. If anything, _you_ did not consent and should be pressing charges on me."

"I wasn't that drunk. Believe me."

Clark nearly grimaced, "That's exactly what a drunk person would say."

Wayne ran a hand through his hair, and Clark suddenly had to sit down. So he did, gently seating himself in Perry's chair – consequences be damned.

"Listen," Wayne sounded frustrated, "I'm not – "

"Mr. Wayne. I consented," with a sigh, he then reluctantly admitted, "And I enjoyed it."

He perked up at this, "Really?"

"Yes."

"Would you want to pursue," Wayne flicked his hand between them, "This?"

"Huh?" he breathed out.

Clark was really disappointed in himself. He'd tried to squash whatever feelings of infatuation he'd gotten around Wayne. Yet, it was obvious that his emotional strength wasn't nearly as polished as his physical kind. It wasn't Wayne's fault; it wasn't like he was trying to get Clark to fall for him – well, for more than a fun night anyways. Clark was just afraid that he'd be cast aside once Wayne got what he wanted. Ma had always told him that he fell hard and fast.

And Superman couldn't have friends.

Clark had to consciously unclench his fingers from how tightly he was fisting them.

It wasn't easy being offered a taste of what he couldn't have. Clark was sure that if he said yes, he'd be making one of the biggest mistakes of his life. And he couldn't put Wayne's life at risk over an autumn fling.

Clark took one look at those eyes and knew that this time, he had to save himself.

"No, thank you, Mr. Wayne," he got to his feet maybe a little too quickly than his stomach appreciated, "But I have work to do. Is there anything else you need?"

"...No," Wayne looked disappointed, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Kent."

* * *

The Kryptonite had to wait.

Batman had switched from patrol to a standard reconnaissance mission after hearing police static over a potential trafficking negotiation. He'd been keeping tabs on this case for closing in on a year now, and he'd learned earlier on that their... transactions happened hours earlier than what was whispered and often at the opposite end of the city. Whoever was tipping off the GCPD was giving out false information. It was an effective method, getting the police's attention diverted for long enough to finish up business. But unknown to them, it also made Bruce's job easier. It was why he was at the docks instead of the underground tunnels, where the police were currently stationed with their flashing lights and loud radio chatter.

Perched on a nearby rooftop, Bruce manually controlled his upgraded cowl lenses – Dick and Alfred had fought over calling it "X-ray Glare" and "Detective Vision"; one made the obvious win – which held true despite the pouring rain. Reluctantly, Bruce admitted that it was Superman's sight that had given him the idea. Being able to see through walls was an invaluable tool, and getting relevant data including weapons, vital signs, and face recognition to transmit to and from the Batcomputer had resulted in more efficient and successful missions.

Conversely, the rain was turning out to be a problem.

His tech could pick up voices through it, but it wasn't as clear as he needed it to be, especially on a more complicated dealing like this one. These people weren't here to sell drugs or weapons. This was a quiet trade-off with smaller numbers and a higher value: humans. Bruce had long since grown used to the sickening feeling that had settled in his gut, and it was the knowledge that he could stop this that pushed him forward.

There were two men and a woman arguing inside a car nearby – from the looks of it, on lookout duty. The car was empty of any victims, and there was no sign of a boat approaching from the ocean. Bruce could pick up a few words, " _they're late – don't like this – can't see... – fuckin' rain_ ", and something less promising, _"good delivery... – fort— collect the – ...young"._

What did they mean by _fort_? Forty? Fourteen? Age? Number of people? The day of the month? Time?

Bruce shot up and spun around, flinging a Batarang.

The metal glinted, but it wasn't lodged into his pursuer's arm like it was supposed to be. Bruce inhaled sharply. The edged bat was being held between two steel fingers delicately – not to prevent a cut, but to protect the weapon.

_"Batman."_

The sound of Bruce's heart roared in his ears, louder than the rain, louder than the crack of thunder rumbling across overhead.

Superman knew his name – was aware of the Batman.

This meeting was inevitable, though Bruce had been careful to delay it for as long as possible. He'd been diligent to keep the alien ignorant of his existence, prioritizing stealth operations and working outside of Superman's hours. Bruce had produced cameras without any logos. He'd infiltrated Luthor's labs while Superman was meant to be doing his rounds in Asia. He must have made a mistake somewhere, overlooked a detail that would have given him away. Maybe it was chance, but Bruce wasn't one to believe in coincidence, especially when Superman evidently already had a problem with him.

Superman's mouth was set into a hard line, his eyes a blazing inferno, and a moment into them could immobilize a beast. He'd seen this expression once, directed at an equal – Zod. But Bruce was only human, and facing the wrath of an almost-god was an admonition of his own mortality.

A set of red boots made two steps, three, but Batman didn't flinch. He didn't move at all.

"We need to talk," Superman approached him.

He was close enough for Bruce to grab by the arm and toss into a hold. To send a swift kick to the head. To knock him out and throw him over his shoulder for a proper interrogation. Yet, it would be easier to lift a mountain. To dive into the sun. Fighting Superman was out of the question.

But Bruce was desperate to. The frantic _need_ that clawed its way through seemed to suffocate him. It was a sadistic urge, uncalled for, so Bruce welcomed the disgust that followed after. The shame. What was he doing? Wanting to hurt someone just to prove that he could—this was what he fought against. There was no necessity for it; Superman was not Earth's enemy. He could be, but he wasn't.

Bruce's finger twitched. It wasn't hatred which drove him. It wasn't reverence or intrigue. It wasn't fear, not anymore.

Bruce just wanted, and he didn't know why.

This alien brought out a darkness in him that he'd hoped he'd never live to see.

Superman had given him a chance to speak, but Bruce hadn't said a word – unable to – so he continued with a frown, "You've been following me. Watching me. Studying me. Don't try to deny it."

Bruce flicked his cape so it would settle over his shoulders. Still he said nothing. Silence was the greatest weapon. Sooner or later, Superman would talk.

The alien's face pinched, and as predicted, he gave in.

"Alright," Superman's hands settled on slim hips, and Bruce was confronted by an expression that somehow felt far, far worse than his wrath: disappointment, "You've taken something from LexCorp that doesn't belong to you."

Batman tensed.

Hm. So, he knew about the Kryptonite too.

How?

LexCorp notes recorded that Superman remained unaware of the mineral. This was a discrepancy. Whatever—he could deal with this. Bruce had already made plans in the event that this occurred. The odds of Superman discovering that a company notorious for hating him was experimenting on a rock which came from his own planet was inevitable. What he hadn't prepared for was Superman finding out that Batman got his hands on a sample too. Not so soon, anyways. Superman was meant to find out that Bruce had the Kryptonite once Bruce had finished his tests and was all but holding the rock in his face.

This was a horrible first meeting. The last thing Bruce had wanted was Superman assuming that he was an enemy. It would be a correct assumption, but Superman didn't have to know that.

Batman _was_ trying to hurt Superman – or more accurately, trying to make sure there was a _way_ to hurt him or hold him down. Because if there wasn't, then humanity was doomed.

Alfred was bound to simper out an "I told you so" into the mic once – if – Bruce found his way out of Superman's radar. Maybe he should have put more consideration into Alfred's idea.

Bruce wasn't against using a more manipulative route to gather the alien's trust, first. If this night didn't end up with him crushed into a ball of flesh and Batsuit, then he might resort to it.

But Bruce would rather not interact with Superman at all if he could help it. Not only was his presence here in Gotham bound to change the patterns of criminal behaviour, and therefore make it harder for Bruce to plan ahead, but there was the added risk of Superman attracting other powerful beings into the city. That was the last thing Bruce wanted to deal with. Once he established the effects of the Kryptonite, Bruce had no intentions of crossing paths with the alien again. If they did, then it would be because the fate of the Earth depended on it.

In the end, he grounded out, "You're not getting it back."

" – I'm not asking for it back."

And he didn't voice it as a threat, but as though he genuinely meant it. Batman's scowl deepened, "Then why are you here?"

"I only want to know your intentions with it."

Bruce kept quiet, thoughts simmering. He didn't owe the alien any explanation. _Did_ Superman know what the Kryptonite was capable of? Luthor had suggested otherwise, but that didn't make it true. Maybe Superman purposefully kept Luthor in the dark on his knowledge.

If Superman had known about the Kryptonite, then why hadn't he taken it from Luthor? The alien couldn't be that oblivious; Luthor's bloodlust for Superman was palpable, and the plans for the mineral were all weaponized. Why let the man who wanted him dead hold something so valuable?

Unless... Superman _couldn't_ take the rock away. Was the Kryptonite toxic to touch? It was unstable enough. Hm...

He'd carry the Kryptonite again for next time they met. Bruce had to run some tests. It didn’t have any effect on himself, no matter how many assessments he'd run. Diamond could cut through it, so it wouldn't be hard enough to pierce through Superman's skin. Besides radiation poisoning – mild, and easily resolved with lead barriers – there had been no acute ill-effects on him. Long-term risks were obviously still uncertain, but for the most part, exposure to Kryptonite was relatively safe.

If it hardly had any effect on a human body, then the rock had to be as dangerous as a pet goldfish to Superman.

But Bruce had to be certain. If there was the slightest chance that Kryptonite could harm him - 

"Is your intention to kill me?" Superman broke his train of thought.

He glared, "You need a failsafe."

"A – a failsafe?" Superman's expression broke into one of confusion, disbelief, or something somewhere in between. He said fiercely, "I would never hurt anyone here."

"Not intentionally," Bruce said quietly. Too quietly for a human to hear under the pounding of the rain.

Perhaps Superman wasn't as intelligent as he thought. Where was his self-awareness? Could he not comprehend the risks of carrying so much power? The responsibilities that came with it?

Superman wore his emotions on his sleeve. And Bruce watched his composure break, saw the moment he remembered his failures and the consequences of them, and Bruce did nothing as the alien's blue, blue eyes betrayed the symbol on his chest – "... _a symbol of my people. It means hope," –_ as though curtained by defeat and hopelessness.

The irony was a travesty. From Superman's abrupt arrival on Earth, Bruce had assumed he couldn't feel. But Bruce couldn't have been more wrong. Superman was everything good. He was more human than Bruce. Superman was capable of friendship – Bruce wasn't – and love – Bruce couldn't.

He came to a realization, "Kent told you."

It was his own fault. He should have known. He'd made the assumption that Kent's relationship with Superman was mediocre at best. That was his mistake; Kent was the catalyst. He had judged the reporter incorrectly, based solely off his writing, and without considering the other contextual factors revolving around the reporter.

That was right... Kent had found Batman meddling with Luthor, and Kent had known from the get-go that Luthor was up to no good. Bruce had turned down his offer to ally with him. Perhaps he thought Batman was also trying to hurt Superman and had gone ahead to warn him. Or the reverse – Superman had checked in on the man and found him bleeding.

But his greatest miscalculation didn't fall on Kent; it was Superman. He hadn't even been able to conceive the notion of an alien developing personal relationships outside his flimsy veneer of altruism.

Superman was proving to be unpredictable, and Bruce wasn't on good terms with things he couldn't understand.

"I don't care what your plans are with me, but you leave him alone," Superman warned, stepping impossibly closer, "I mean it."

Bruce felt the edge of his words brush against his bones. Against his will, a chill crawled up his spine.

Superman shouldn't have bothered with intimidation tactics; he could speak plainly about the weather, and even that could sound like a threat. Superman could inspire fear – not like the Batman, not through direct intimidation, but with mere presence. His existence, a name, a symbol, was enough for Bruce to feel that sharp urge to obey.

Both Batman and Wayne intentionally used this approach against their targets, each in their own way. It was difficult to refuse Batman, and at times harder to refuse Bruce Wayne. He was aware of that, of the impact of his socioeconomic status and its influence on others. Yet Superman was oblivious to it, to the weight of his words. When someone in a position of power told you to do something, you did it. To anyone else, Superman's word was law.

And that was why Bruce drew out an angry, "No."

Because Kent was a weak link between them all, and Bruce wouldn't waste an opportunity that presented itself.

And, in the back of his mind, he wondered how many times Superman had been refused. Did it leave him indignant? Would disobedience lead him to use force? And if it did... how far would he go?

Superman didn't sputter out an arrogant _"excuse me?"_ or grab at him, like Bruce had expected. He just frowned, "You won't give up on this, will you?"

And his eyes did glow in the dark. Not obtrusively, but enough to be noticeable. Truly out of this world. Up close like this, Bruce was irritated to find them –

" _They're here_ ," Alfred's modulated voice broke through the conversation, quiet in his earpiece. However, judging by the shift in Superman's gaze, it was loud enough.

Bruce lost his patience, "This conversation is a waste of my time. If you're here to kill me, do it now. Otherwise, get out of my city."

His cape whipped against Superman's frame as he spun around on his feet and refocused. Bruce didn't offer him any more attention. He crouched back low over the ledge of the roof, back in his earlier position. When before the lookouts had been the only people occupying the docks, now two other cars – Bruce snapped photos of their license plates and models – were parked haphazardly nearby.

A red boot crossed his peripherals, and Bruce nearly lost his composure in his anger. He hissed under his breath, "Get down!"

Superman did, flattening himself next to Bruce.

"Who are they?" he, at least, had the foresight to ask instead of rushing straight in.

Superman was as colourful as a peacock. Even under the cover of the night, the man stuck out like a sore thumb. There was nothing subtle about him. If those dealers caught sight of Superman, the investigation would spiral out of control, and Bruce would have to start from square one. Facing Batman was one thing, but having Superman on their tail was an entirely different situation. They'd pack their bags and relocate. It'd taken Bruce seven weeks to get even just a trace of evidence against them. He only needed a few more names, and then he'd have enough to blow their whole operation.

He didn't need Superman's help, nor did he want it. But if he didn't give him an answer, Superman would try to find out himself.

"Human traffickers."

"What?!" Superman stage-whispered, though it wasn't necessary under the pouring rain, "I should – "

"No," Batman ordered, "You stay out of sight."

"You can't tell me what to do."

"I just did."

Superman rolled his eyes.

Bruce ignored it, ignored how his chest tightened at the motion.

"We need more information," Bruce suddenly said. He was speaking to Alfred, and he realized his mistake a moment too late.

Superman's brow rose, "We?"

A team-up was the last thing he needed. Kal would get the asinine idea in his head that they could do it again. That said, there was also an opportunity to see if Superman could do more than lift things over his head. And Bruce sincerely doubted he would leave anytime soon, not with what was going on down below. He tested, "How many people are in those vehicles?"

Bruce knew how many, but Superman didn't have to know that.

The window tint was well over the legal limit, it was nearly pitch-black outside, and they had to be a kilometer away. Bruce wanted to evaluate the extent of Superman's vision.

And if he would be honest.

The alien nodded, didn't even argue. Maybe he realized the gravity of the situation. A miracle. Bruce had seen him rush in headfirst and recklessly destroy infrastructure without thinking, even in situations where many alternative options were given. Superman was all brawn and no brain. Or so he'd thought.

Bruce scrutinized Superman, who was busy studying the criminal activity down below. 

"The blue car has five. Three teenagers are in the back. They're cuffed, so it's safe to assume they're the victims. Whoever's in shotgun is aiming a... well, a shotgun at them. The driver's getting out of the car."

"Are they armed?"

"Besides the gun? No."

"Are any of their seatbelts on?"

"Huh? Uh, no, they're not," Superman paused, "The silver car's carrying three passengers. Same situation, but there's one hostage in the back. The two in the front are armed."

"Weapons? Belts?" he pushed. Belts implied he couldn't effectively pull anyone out of the vehicle mid-fight, but he could strangle who he needed if they were too slow to move.

"No belts. Oh, they have three assault rifles in their trunk."

"Anyone with a phone out?"

"Yeah. Silver car. She's texting someone. It's something about the Gotham Knights. Could be code. Uh, want me to read it for you?"

"...No," Bruce's jaw clenched, "There's no time. Can you memorize it?"

"Sure."

Of course, he could. If Superman could see this, then Bruce was utterly fucked. His hand shook against his will, "Any matching finger-prints on the cuffs?"

It took him a few seconds longer, but he eventually answered, "Yes. The man behind the wheel in the blue car has his thumbprints all over them."

Jesus.

He swallowed, watching both of the drivers get out of their respective cars with impassive eyes, "Tell me what they're saying."

"You could say please and thank you, you know," Superman muttered, but he continued, repeating whatever he must be hearing, "...the boat will get here in five minutes. That long? ...This one was so easy. You pretend to need help and they fall for a few tears. Look where being nice gets them. Mine are young. Healthy. ...Not too young, right? No, they can still conceive. Excell – Batman, this is sick."

"Get used to it."

"I ca _n't_."

By the shake in his voice, it was apparent that he was referring to a lot more than just tonight.

"You have to," Batman looked out into the dark waters. No sign of any boat. He glanced back at the alien, "Not all wrong is caused by hurricanes or forest fires."

"I know. I know," he ground out.

"We're the small fry Superman can't reach," Bruce couldn't stop, "But that's a choice, isn't it?"

He didn't know why he said it. He certainly didn't believe it. But maybe, subconsciously, he did. Superman chose who he saved. He got to decide who lived and who died. He was playing a role that no one should be playing.

But, Bruce exhaled, the same could be said for him.

Superman leaned on his elbow, frowning again, "That's not what's going on. I can't save everybody. It doesn't matter how fast or strong I am; Superman can't be everywhere at once. Don't you dare imply that I don't care about this."

"I know you do. That's the problem," Bruce was going in circles. He didn't have the time for this.

"How is that a problem?!"

They'd have this conversation later. Or not at all if he had any say in it, "Do you see the boat?"

"Are you serious?" his jaw had dropped.

"The boat."

Superman exhaled, then searched, "I see it. There are two, actually. Motorboats. If they don't change speed, they're four minutes and twenty seconds away, about North thirty-six degrees East from here. One onboard each, neither are armed."

About? That was the most precise reading anyone could ever provide.

"I'll take it from here," Bruce didn't look back, "Get out of my city."

He didn't wait for a response, instead rising to his feet and diving over the ledge. From his peripherals, he noticed Superman flinch, no doubt an automatic reflex to catch whoever was falling. However, the moment he was airborne, Bruce disappeared under the unyielding presence of the Bat and the mission.

As this was essentially a hostage situation, it was imperative that he did this quietly to avoid spraying bullets. Picking them off one by one was the safest plan.

It worked.

He pivoted on his foot and snapped a back kick on the last of them, and they stumbled towards the car, smacking against the door and knocked out cold.

Bruce nearly ripped the door off its hinges when he opened it. He quickly assessed the victims through his lenses, and the data from the computer let him know they weren't injured besides a few scrapes and bruises.

"You're – !" a girl gasped when she stepped out of the car.

He ignored them, uncuffing their wrists with his equipment. He attached the evidence to his belt for their prints later. Bruce helped the woman out of the final vehicle when he noticed one of the teens recording him on her phone.

Now, of all times?

Bruce snatched it from her and crushed it in his palm.

"Get out of here," he growled at them, but they only stared at him fearfully. He slammed a hand against the car with a _bang_ , " _Now_!"

They scrambled, running out back onto the streets. Alfred had already notified first-responders, sirens sounding in the distance. They weren't injured, and the rain had calmed to a pitter-patter. They would be fine.

Alfred still tutted in his earpiece, clearly unimpressed, "Really?"

"Not now," Bruce said.

They had an understanding; Batman couldn't be seen holding hands with victims and comforting them through their trauma. That didn't mean Alfred had to like it, nor Bruce for that matter. He was indulgent when he had to be. But soft? Never. Yet with each passing night, the cruelty was becoming easier to deliver. The suit wasn't just a suit; it was his skin, an extension of his limbs, another part of him. And the world never painted an angel with the wings of a bat.

Batman hopped onto a motorboat and grabbed the only trafficker that was still conscious, asking calmly, "Who do you work for?"

"I ain't telling you shit!" he tried to move, but Bruce's grip was tight.

"I'll ask one more time," he said, "Who do you work for?"

The man spat onto his boot, so Bruce shoved his head underwater.

When he pulled him out, he was gasping for breath. Bruce pushed him back in.

He choked out water, coughing out, "Wait – wait – !"

Torture was a last resort, but he was less reluctant when he was dealing with the lowest of all scum. Bruce brought his head to eye-level, "Go on. Talk."

"We send them overseas – to whoever buys best – !"

"You didn't answer the question," Batman cut him off and squeezed warningly, "Last chance."

"His name is—they call him –," a gasp, "... _Superman_?!"

Bruce snapped his head around, anger filling him and spilling over the edge.

Of course, Superman couldn't follow simple instructions. There he was, hovering over Gotham's dark waters with disappointed eyes and a frown that could dim the sun.

The pig in his hands begun to shake, "Help! Please!"

Bruce grabbed his jaw, squeezing, "A name."

"Batman," Superman interrupted, "Let him go."

" _A name,"_ he tried again, but he knew it was too late. The look in his eye wasn't one of fear, but of relief. He wouldn't talk. This entire operation was a bust; the moment the police got word that Superman had shown up, this crook's gang would hear about it. Bruce would have to start all over.

 _The GCPD_ , Bruce suddenly remembered. He listened. The sounds of sirens were too close. Closer than he liked. He called in his ride.

It was Batman who turned to Superman, growling, "I told you to stay out of sight."

Red and blue flashes began to reflect off the water. The sight seemed to be a permanent fixture in his life. And when before it had filled him with hate and rage, a reminder of corruption, he had come to accept it. Expect it. This was Gotham, his home. He would protect it with every last fiber of his being, but it was hard to do that with another clown butting in.

"Let him go," Superman's voice was shaking. In rage, nerves, he would never know.

And for once, Bruce listened.

"Fine."

He dropped him in the water.

With broken arms, exhaustion taking its toll, and the surprise of it all, the man began to drown. As expected, Superman dove in after him. Bruce only bought himself a few extra seconds, but it was long enough of a distraction to get off the boat and back on land without interference. He sprinted towards the Batmobile, vaulting in and speeding off just as the police pulled in.

Superman didn't follow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not crazy about this chapter, but I give up; I just wanted it posted so I could move on. 
> 
> I live in a pretty safe city here in Canada, but human trafficking is relatively huge in my area. I've had several attempts on myself that I hadn't realized were attempts until the adrenaline wore off. They can be cunning and subtle. Don't be paranoid, but please be aware that it's real and could happen to you or someone you love. Stay safe!


End file.
